Autumn Tidings
by Samantha Bridges
Summary: Set three years after the end of the movie, with a new twist in the Doctor's life. First in the Emily Trilogy.
1. Autumn Tidings

Autumn has borne its tidings to the world, a wind blowing in with a slight chill to it and carrying just a hint of woodsmoke. This is the most beautiful time to be in the woods. The leaves are turning, spiraling down from their lofty perches, landing softly on the trails we tread. The nuts and berries are ripe and plump, happy foraging for the multitude of wildlife that occupies the forest floor. Through the silence comes the soft rhythmic crunch of leaves from someone running the path. Puffs of breath escape from her lips to be chilled on the air. She is heedless to the cold, kept from it by the sweatshirt she wears, and the gloves on her clenched hands. A noise from the brush to her right, and she slows momentarily to glimpse in its direction, finding nothing more intimidating than a small fox. She continues with her run, glancing up at the quickly fading sunlight. An arm held up with the sleeve pulled back to glance at the watch. She shakes her head and increases her pace, passing quickly through the forest. She is a very magnificent woman.

* * * * *

Dr. Emily Christophersen jogged in place as she inserted the key into the backdoor at the old farmhouse that stood at the lake's edge. Warmth greeted her as she pushed the door open and stepped into the kitchen. She eased the door shut and pulled the leather gloves from her fingers, flexing them, encouraging them to move again. As she walked through the house, she stripped off her sweatshirt and the tee shirt underneath, moving only in her sports bra. Slowly, she tromped up the stairs feeling the dull ache in her knees. The winter was coming too soon for her once again. Sitting on the edge of her bed, she removed her running shoes and padded barefoot to the bathroom. She turned on the faucet in the shower, allowing the water to heat as she slid the door shut. Emily removed the last of her clothes and threw them into the hamper before stepping into the warm cascade of water. The heat loosened her body, stiff from the run in the afternoon chill. Fifteen minutes later she emerged, steam rising from her nude body as she reached for her towel. She grabbed a robe from the hook by the door and wrapped it around her. As she padded down the stairs, Emily heard the knob turn in the front door. Her assistant eased in, and smiled up at her.

"Good evening, Emily." he set the bag of groceries down as he closed the door behind him. "I see you finished your run." he said as he carefully hung his coat and hat on the pegs on the left wall and reached back down for the groceries. Emily smiled as she came down the rest of the stairs.

"Good evening, Edward. I thought I told you that you didn't have to come back this evening." she followed the older gentleman into the kitchen. Edward had come to be her assistant at the small psychiatric practice she owned. It had almost been six months ago that he had shown up literally on her doorstep. He was, for all outward appearances, a kind man in his late sixties. She was never good with ages, and he never offered. Emily had come to learn that he had a taste for the finer things in life. He had brought a touch of civility into her life that she had not experienced in years. He never spoke about his past, which suited Emily just fine. She had offered him a room in the house partially in exchange for his services. He had declined, but spent many nights with her none the less. She watched him set the bag on the counter as he beckoned her over to stand beside him. 

"Did you have a pleasant run this afternoon Emily?" he asked, withdrawing a bottle of wine from the bag. Emily carefully received the bottle from him and looked at the label.

"Yes. Its getting a might but chilly, but I survived. This is a good year, Edward."

Edward nodded his approval of her comment. "I thought you might like it. It's a Chilean red from the vineyards of Santa Ema." next he withdrew a carefully wrapped paper package. 

"Steaks?" she inquired, setting the wine down in the tile countertop.

He laughed softly. "Nothing so inferior, my dear. Filet Mignon." she smiled and headed for the dining room. She removed two cut crystal wine glasses from her china cabinet her mother had passed down to her. When she returned to the kitchen, she saw that fresh corn on the cob and mushrooms lay on the counter next to the paper wrapped meat. Edward was at the sink, filling a large pot with water and placing the steaming rack inside for the corn to rest on. she set the glasses down on the counter next to him with a soft touch. Emily then picked up an ear and began to shuck it, carefully removing every strand of silk from it. She turned away to retrieve the holders from a drawer and felt Edward's eyes in her. 

He was always watching her, watching her reactions and the way she did things. It had bothered her at first, but now it was just another thing he did. Emily often thought that he had a mind to a psychiatrist, often being able to offer treatment to patients when she had run out of options. She could not imagine life without him, now that they had found each other. She inserted the holder into one end of the corn cob, then turned it over to insert the other. Edward was standing silently beside her, waiting patiently for her to hand him the readied corn. Another ear, she again shucked it and carefully removed the silk. She watched as he set them onto the steaming rack and placed a lid on the pot. His smile was soft on his features, lighting his eyes as he looked at her.

"My turn." he told her, the same words uttered every night he made dinner. Emily slipped to the edge of the kitchen, taking a seat on a chair she kept there. The meals preparation had a ritual to it; while Edward went about his preparations, Emily sat at the edge of the scene and sorted her mail. She had just picked up the first envelope and the letter opener when Edward set a glass of wine at her elbow. She smiled up at him as she carefully lifted the glass to her lips, holding the sharp implement out at an angle so as not to cut herself. Emily had never cared for red wines, but this one intrigued her. It was complex, a liquid melody that showered her senses. The surprise showed in her eyes, for Edward smiled back at her. 

"I thought you'd like that." he turned away, back to his preparations as Emily replaced the glass on the counter and opened the first letter. The contents surprised her, as the envelope itself had been plain with no distinguishing characteristics. Inside, though, was a letter from a Special Agent at the Federal Bureau of Investigations. She scanned over it quickly, placing the letter opener on the counter and lifting the wine glass. The letter surprised her and she laughed softly as she sipped her wine.

"Something amusing, Emily?" Edward caught every sound around him, something else that had bothered Emily before, but now she thought nothing of it.

"The FBI has requested that I do a psychological profile for them." she read the letter again, slowly noting the subject they wanted her to evaluate and the Agent who had signed the letter.

"Really?" the mushrooms sizzled in a skillet, adding their aroma to the air.

"Yes. They want me to profile Dr. Hannibal Lecter, but…" she trailed off, thinking. "Dr. Lecter hasn't been seen or heard from in years."

"Who's the letter from, Emily?" he added onions to the mushrooms, looking up at Emily, who sat with the wine glass resting above the letter. Her head was dropped slightly and cocked to one side.

"A Clarice Starling." she replied, her voice soft as her mind worked through the possibilities.

Silence filled the space between them, and Emily glanced towards him. There was a strange light in Edward's eyes as she watched him watching her. "I think you should do it, Emily. The possibilities may prove quite… Interesting."

* * * * *


	2. Of Debussy and Bach

Moonlight glitters faintly on the lake shore, as waves breach themselves on the pebbled edge. An owl's call and the soft flap of raptor's wings barely break the silence. The yellow moon is reflected in full next to the small dock. Lights and warmth glimmer from the windows of the farmhouse, reaching a few yards out into the cold. A figure stands in the window, obscuring the light and studying the dark night outside. She studies the night in the light of the moon. The yellow disk is reflected dimly in her pupils, shining a light into her soul. The piano stands across the room behind her, a gentleman on the bench. A hand moves easily across the keys of a piano, the resulting melody passing lightly into the night. The woman turns and smiles in the warmth of the moment. She is a very enchanting woman.

*****

Emily turned away from the window as Edward finished the piece he had been playing on the piano. It was a surprise to her, that he played at all. She smiled, stepping away from the darkness that pressed against the glass and into the warm circle of lamplight. She sipped her wine and watched him from a short distance.

"That was very nice, Edward." 

He slid over on the bench and patted the smooth wood next to him. "Thank you, Emily. It was 'Pour Le Piano' by Debussy." The lamplight seemed to give his eyes a reddish tint as Emily stepped towards him. She set her wine glass down on the closed lid and spread her fingers against the keys. She felt the warmth of Edward's hands as he placed his palms over them. "What shall you play, Emily?"

She smiled and moved closer to him, Edward moved slightly, giving her as much room as he could. He lifted his hands from hers as she began to play. Eyes closed, her head cocked to one side, a glimmer of the smile still lay on her lips. The song was familiar to Edward, he had played it before. Time ceased and they were surrounded by the melody. Slowly, her head titled backwards as she let herself fall into the music. When she finished, she opened her eyes and looked into the pale reflection that was in Edward's eyes.

"Very nice." he commented, taking her left hand and tracing the fingers. "You have much passion."

"It sets me free." her hands went back to the keys and she began to play the saraband again. Edward smiled, his hand still lightly atop her left hand, following the movements.

"Bach's Goldberg Variations." he whispered. She nodded, eyes closed once again. She leaned unconsciously closer to him, and he could smell the scent of lavender and vanilla on her hair. He pulls back, not daring to come that close again. He did once before, and it had caused him great pain. Her memory still tickled at the back of his mind, like a moth flitting at a screen. He released her hand, sliding off the bench to stand.

"You will forgive me if I retire for the evening, Emily." he was always polite, Emily reflected as she looked up at him.

"That's fine, Edward. Are you staying for the evening?"

"If it is not an inconvenience."

She shook her head, hands still playing lightly across the keys. "Of course not. I'll be down here for a little while longer if you need anything."

He inclined his head in a slight bow. "Thank you. Good night, Emily."

She had closed her eyes again, tipping her head back. "Good night, Edward." as he ascended the staircase, the sounds of the saraband once again filled the house. He would have dreams tonight. It did not bother him, except that he could guarantee that they would not be pleasant.

*****

She pulled the covers back on her bed, turned and looked out the window one last time before pulling the drapes. Sitting gingerly on the edge of the bed, she swings her legs up and under the covers. Slowly, Emily rolled over and reached up to the lamp. A small oil lamp remained lit on the bedside table, its light amplified by the mirror mounted behind it. She pulled the small sketch diary from the drawer and the fine tipped micron pen that was clipped to its cover. She flipped through the pages, looking for a clean, unblemished one. She stuck the pen between her teeth, pulling it from its cap. She sketched an eye on the page, seeing the details of her reflection emerge in it. His eye, his view to her soul, her self unveiled before him. If it were anyone else, she reasoned, such a revelation would frighten her. Quite the opposite with Edward. His presence in her mind comforted her, calmed her, let her see herself more clearly. She finished the sketch and let the cap fall from the grip of her teeth. She could almost see the reddish glint in her rendition, for it was only black and white. Reclaiming the cap, Emily tightly recapped the pen, carefully clipping it to the front cover as she closed the diary. She slid it into the still open drawer, then shut the drawer carefully. Emily the cupped her hand behind the rim of the glass chimney and blew gently, extinguishing the flame. She rolled back against the pillows, letting her eyelids flutter shut and her body relax. Sleep came easily and she began to dream. He was there, in the palace of her mind through it all. Watching, waiting for her to find him.

*****


	3. Her Mother's Daughter

Sunrise on the lake, the silvered gold strands of moonlight replaced by the molten glow of the sun. The autumn chill is eased slightly as the world awakens. A gentleman walks the circumference of the lake, his face shielded from the rays by a crisp fedora. He pauses near the dock, watching as the woman emerges from the back door, once again clothed in the sweatshirt and gloves. She waves to the gentleman and sets off a gentle pace in the opposite direction from him. The sun rises further above the treetops, giving her a golden glow as he watches. He waits on the dock, watching her make her way to the other side of the lake. She loops around the far shore, following the path he had trod prior to her. If he listens closely, he can hear the crunch of pebbles beneath her feet. He can hear the beating of his own heart as she comes within distance of him. She smiles at him as she stops at the dock, flushed from the short run. The smile is reflected in his eyes, still shaded by the brim of his fedora. She jogs back to the house, and he follows, watching the world pass him slowly. He reflects on the previous night. She is a very passionate woman.

*****

Emily smiled as Edward stepped into the kitchen, removing his fedora as he did so. The chill tried to invade the kitchen but was chased as the door was closed. He watched as Emily stretched her fingers over the warming kettle on the stove. He stepped from the kitchen and went to hang his hat and coat by the front door. She was placing two large sticky buns on a baking sheet and sliding them into the pre-warmed oven. She stood and brushed a stray lock of hair from her face, meeting the pale eyes that were watching her. Edward moved slowly across the kitchen and removed two mugs from the cabinet above Emily. She steps out of his way and retrieves a tea canister form the small pantry. Carefully, she spoons the loose tea leaves into a white tea pot on the counter. 

Breakfast is always a civilized meal for them. Edward had brought the tea from London, long before he arrived here. The warm, rich scent of the baking sticky buns had begun to waft from the oven, enticing Emily. She walked over to the counter's edge where the letter from Special Agent Starling sat, and she lifted it, reading it once again. There were many profiles of Dr. Lecter out there, she could not see why they would contact her to do one. Especially one on a man that was missing. Still, Emily would call the FBI back and avail herself and her services to them. As Edward had said last night, it may prove interesting. 

She went to the small office off the front hallway and retrieved her daytime, flipping through it as she walked. She sat in the stool at the counter's edge once again and looked over the days schedule. Appointments taken in Edward's neat and precise script, clear and concise. She was making her plans for the day when she heard the clink of stoneware on wood in the dining room. She looked over her shoulder to see Edward placing silverware on the table, along with the small serving ditch that held the creamer and sugar bowl. She slipped from her stool and took the kettle off the stove, pouring the just boiling water into the teapot. She carried it to the dining room, joining him at the table. The sticky buns sat on plates in gooey elegance. 

"Thank you." she smiled, as he poured tea into her mug. The rich scent of the strong tea wafted to her. The steam warmed her face as she lifted the mug, feeling the heat seep into her fingertips. "I need to call the FBI before the day begins. If I don't do it soon, I'll never get it done."

A nod, "Yes, you do have a busy day today. Let me know if Mrs. Grimes has any problems." Mrs. Grimes was an elderly woman from the village. She often set into screaming fits when she didn't like what Dr. Christophersen had to tell her. Edward was the only one who could calm her. The sight of him whispering in her ears almost always gave Emily chills. Something told her that there was more to this man than it seemed. Mother had always told Emily that appearances could be deceiving, and her mother was all too right. 

She was a beautiful woman, the pride of the village, but there was not a single loving bone in her body. She was bitter and cruel, and Emily always believed that the monster her mother hid inside herself had caused the woman to kill Emily's father. She had visited her mother once in the hospital of her own will. Every other visit had been for research. Emily felt that being the daughter of a murderer had given her a unique perspective into the monster. Last year, her mother had killed a nurse in the hospital. After that, Emily never visited her again. Sometimes, if she listened very carefully, Emily could hear her mother's screams echoing down the corridor after her. In those moments, the screams drowned out all other noise, and Emily wondered if others could hear the screams too. Now was one such moment, as she crashed back to reality, slamming the door to that memory shut. She took a deep breath and raised her eyes to meet Edward's, his full of concern.

"Are you okay, Emily?"

A wave of the hand, the memory tucked away to resurrected later in private and analyzed, leached for anything it would give to her. "Fine, just thinking for a moment." she took another deep breath and lifted her knife to cut into the sticky bun. She took a bite and concentrated on the here and now. The taste of warm caramel and pecans wrapped in the yeasty dough settled her nerves. Before she knew it, her plate was clean and Edward was smiling at her. 

"That's my girl. Now, what say we get the day started, hmm?" he stood from his place and took her dish to the kitchen. When Emily came to stand behind him, he handed her the portable phone in trade for the teapot she was holding. She took the phone and went to sit on her stool, dialing the number given her in the letter. Three rings before she was connected.

"Hello, Agent Starling?" a slight pause, Edward slowed his dishwashing to listen in on the one sided conversation. "Yes, this is Dr. Emily Christophersen, you contacted me about the profile on Dr. Hannibal Lecter… Yes, I'd be willing to do it, but I am curious why you wanted me." Silence descended on Emily as a darkness clouded her features. "Yes, I see. Okay, I'll be looking for the documents. Thank you, Agent Starling. Yes, I'll keep in touch with you. Thank you. Thank you, goodbye." She punched the off button on the phone and stared off into space. "Nothing good can come of this." she muttered to herself, Edward heard but kept silent. Let her talk at her own pace. 

"Edward, can you make an appointment for me at the State Hospital? I need to visit someone there. Soon, please."

"I will do so, Emily." he dried his hands on a towel and glanced at the clock hung on the near wall. "It's almost eight, Mr. Andrews will be here soon."

A weary smile. "Thank you, I'll be in my office. Show him in when he arrives."

"I will, Emily." he watched her intently as she left the kitchen. Curiosity got the best of him as he reached for the address book that sat by her stool. Carefully, he dialed the number for the State Hospital. Who was she visiting there?

*****


	4. Days Past

Dust gathers on the books that line the office shelves. They have not been touched in ages, many just there for aesthetic value. Her slim finger traces across their bindings, leaving a path in the dust. She continues until she finds the volume she is looking for. A personal scrapbook, its contents consisting of articles that she has found to be of interest. She tugs to remove the book from its resting place and carries it back to her desk. She lays a hand atop the burgundy leather, feeling it as if it may impart something to her from this touch. She has an hour before her next client, and she opens the book wide, carefully smoothing the paper within. Newspaper yellowed with age, glossy paper contrasting it, cut from an old issue of Time. She flips through the pages, looking for the item she wants. The black and white picture of a woman smiles up at her. The woman is tall and thin, dressed elegantly with her hands resting on the shoulders of a small girl. The traces of a smile flit on the girls face, barely there. She looks as though she is being forced to take this picture. A finger traces across the girl's frilly dress, and then up across the mother's dress, coming to rest in her face. The smile looks genuine, but there is a cold fire in the eyes. Slightly to the side and behind the woman is a gentleman, tall and well built. He has the same look as the little girl, one of displeasure of being photographed. His eyes bear a pain, a sadness that runs deep into his soul. The little girl's eyes? She has fear flickering in them, and that same fear seeps into the eyes looking at the photograph. She is a very distressed little girl.

*****

August 1969

The sun shines down on the lake, causing the ripples to glitter like broken glass. She sits alone on the dock, feet dangling over the water, dirt smudging the frilly yellow dress. She knows she's going to get in trouble again, for getting the dress dirty. Her head snaps towards the house as she hears the back door slam shut. Her mother stands on the concrete step and glares down towards the dock. Emily ignores her mother, tempting even more punishment for not coming immediately upon sight of her mother. The afternoon silence is cracked by her mother's voice.

"Emily Amelia Christophersen!" the stern sound rings out above the lake. To little Emily, it is like a whipcrack. She dutifully stands and brushes the dust from her dress. She trots up to the house, her mother waiting like a serpent about to strike. She slows and stops short of her mother, but not far enough away to avoid the hand that slaps her cheek. She ducks her head, struggling not to let the tears show. Mother didn't like to see tears, it made her angry when she saw tears. 

"Dammit, Emily. I've been looking for you for fifteen minutes. We're having pictures done today, and now look what you've done." she huffed, and pulled the girls chin up sharply between her fingers. A red welt was appearing on one cheek from where the wedding ban had struck her.

"I'm sorry, Mommy." she whispers, avoiding the glacial stare that has settled on her face. 

"You always are. Go have your father put ice on that and get cleaned up." she released Emily and crossed her arms over her chest. Emily lunged for the door knob and bounded into the kitchen. Her father sat at the edge of the kitchen, perched on a stool as his daughter came in. Her mother passed by and left the tow alone in the kitchen. Emily's father eyed her as he stood, coming across the kitchen.

"She got you good, didn't she?" he asked, looking at the red welt. "What was it this time?"

"Same thing that always makes her slap me, me being me." a strange reply for most six year olds, but Emily had matured much faster living in this home.

"Let's ice it, maybe get the swelling down." he shook his head and opened the freezer door. She dutifully got a dish towel out of the drawer and held it open for him, watching the ice cubes slide against the terry cloth. "And we have pictures today, she should've known better." 

Emily nodded her agreement. The cold of the ice stung slightly as she rested it against her cheek. Her father brushed the loose curls from her face and hunkered down to her level. She looked into the blue-grey eyes that so closely matched hers. "What, Daddy?"

He sighed, a deep and tired sigh. "I'm going to get you out of here, Emmie. I've already made arrangements with your aunt. You'll live with her until your mommy gets better."

"Daddy, I don't want to leave you. Not with Mommy, she might hurt you." tears were welling in her eyes at the news. Tears were okay in front of her father, he didn't get angry and hurt her. He hugged her tight and lifted her into the air, placing a kiss on her forehead.

"Don't worry, Emmie. Daddy will be just fine." He carried her out to the living room where the photographer was setting up his camera. He settled Emily on the couch, and went up the stairs to get her mother. Mother was smiling as she came down the stairs. She came over to Emily and gave her a kiss on the forehead as she scooped her into a hug. She tsked at the welt on her cheek.

"Really, Emily. What am I going to do with you?" she took the towel with the ice away and set it in an empty candy dish. "You knew we were having pictures today."

The photographer eyed the exchange, ignoring the mother's words. Everyone on town knew that Marian Christophersen beat her daughter. Rumor had it that she had even attacked her husband one night. He finished the adjustments on the camera and smiled at Emily's mother.

"I'm all set, Mrs. Christophersen." 

She nodded and Emily hopped off the couch, coming to stand in front of her mother. She felt the tight grip of her mother's hands on her shoulders as Daddy took his place behind Mommy. Emily watched the photographer intently, trying to smile like a good girl. The flash blinded her for a moment, and she blinked seeing fuzzy dots in her vision. Another few flashes and they were done. Emily was sent up to her room until dinner. She glanced back at her father as she ran up the stairs. She saw great pain and sadness in his eyes as he stood next to his wife. 

Emily slipped into her room and looked out over the lake, seeing a bird land on her sill. She went over and opened the window, startling the little finch. She saw a bright flash of yellow as the bird flew into her room. She watched it circle near the ceiling and the fly back out the window. As she watched it in the slowly sinking sun, she felt a sinking in her stomach. She really didn't want to leave Daddy here all alone.

*****

A tap on her shoulder brought Emily to her senses. She had been dozing, she looked down to see her hand resting on the last picture of her family together. The last picture of her father. Edward stood to her side, looking down at her.

"It's one o'clock, Emily. Mrs. Grimes will be here at one thirty." he set a plate down on the desk, carefully to the side of the book. "I thought you might like some lunch."

A relieved look in her eyes. "Thank you."

Edward stepped back as if to leave but he stopped and looked back at the photograph. "May I ask who she is?" he of course meant the woman whose face was covered by Emily's finger

She twitched ever so slightly, her back stiffening. "My mother." she shut the book quickly and slid it out of the way, bringing the plate into its place. "Thank you for lunch, Edward." her tone did not invite discussion and Edward slipped from the small office, closing the door behind him.

"She hurt you didn't she, Emily?" he questioned himself as he lifted the telephone receiver that sat in the hall. He dialed the number from memory. He listened as it rang; once, twice, three times."

"Vermont State Hospital." came a flat female voice on the other end of the line.

"Hello, my name is Dr. Edward Chilton. I was wondering if I could make an appointment with one of your patients?"

"Which one?"

"Marian Christophersen. I'm doing research on people who have killed their spouses." the lie slipped so easily from his lips.

"Okay, one moment." soft jazz replaced the woman's voice as Edward was left on hold. There was a click and she picked up the line again. "Okay, you can speak to her at ten on Wednesday, is that okay Dr. Chilton?"

A smile spread across his face. "Marvelous. Thank you, dear. Ta-ta."

*****


	5. Marian Christophersen

Tralala…. Hello, dear readers. I seem to have forgotten to post all the normal disclaimers in the first chapter so here they are. The dear Dr. Lecter and the darling Clarice are not mine, I am only borrowing them with great thanks to Thomas Harris. Original characters are property of me. Thank you for your kind reviews so far. I hope you will continue enjoying the tale. Ta-ta.

*********************************************************************************************************

Snow, white and crystalline, dusted the ground and the trees. She steps out the front door, snugging her coat tight around her. The brim of the brawn fedora was pulled low to keep the snow from her face. She pulls a gloved hand from the warmth of her pocket and fumbled with the key fob, unlocking the Sable's doors. She grasps the door handle and yanks the door open, away of the ice that has frozen on the seal. The car starts with a satisfying growl as she adjusts the heater and defroster to full blast. Carefully, she steps back out of the driver's seat and pulls an ice scraper from the rear seat. She sets about scraping the accumulated snow and ice off the windows. The scrape of the plastic blade through the ice is the only sound above the engine. She can hear herself breathing and her heart beating with the unusual lack of noise around her. In the distance of her mind she heard the screams begin and she pushes them back into the dark room, slamming the door shut. Snow settles lightly on the brim of her hat, jolted and falling now as she leans across the hood. She glances back to the warmth of the farm house, seeing the light radiating from the windows. She sees a shadow cross one of the upstairs windows. She shakes her head and pushes the blade across the glass one final time before retreating to the relative warmth of the car's interior. She puts the Sable in gear and lets it roll down the driveway's incline. The passing trees reflect off the clean glass, reflecting the cold that blankets them. She is a beautiful woman.

*****

The Sable handled the slick roads easily as she drove up the highway. She looked through the monotony of the wiper blades at the road ahead of her. Three exits down the road and Emily turned off, taking a county road through a densely wooded area. The snow was heavier here, and she slowed down, flipping on the parking lights so she was at least a little more visible to others. Not that she expected many people out here in the first place. She finally reached her destination and turned into a small parking lot. A squat, intimidating brick building sat before her, like a giant huddled in the snow. She cut the engine and stared at the twin glass doors that marked the entrance. It had been a long time, and she had expected it to be longer than this. Sighing, she stepped from the Sable and locked the door behind her. Tugging the fedora down she made her way across the parking lot. 

She stamped the snow from her shoes as she reached the glass doors. Taking a deep breath, she opened one and stepped inside. The smell of bleach and disinfectants assaulted her nose. Below that there was the smell of sweat and the overwhelming fear. She forced her feet to move and she approached the reception desk. Within a few moments, a burly orderly was escorting her down a deserted corridor. A lone folding chair sat in front of one of the cells, waiting for an occupant. She thanked the orderly short of the chair and waved him away. She had to do this alone.

Emily seated herself in the chair as the old woman occupying the cell looked up at her. A grim smile twisted the once beautiful face.

"Come to harass me again, child?" gnarled hands that were once as fine as any twisted around the bars. "Hmmm, child? Answer me!"

Emily sat unmoving in her chair, contempt dripped from the woman's face. Finally, Emily spoke. "Hello, Mother." She met the bitter stare with one of glacial calm. "How have you been?"

*****

Emily endured her mother for two hours, catching all of it on the tape recorder she held in her pocket. The anger and bitterness towards Emily was still there, stronger than ever because it had been festering and growing for so long. Emily finally rose from her chair, and turned to leave without final comment to her mother. She was stopped dead in her tracks when she heard the withered voice whisper.

"What was that, Mother?" she asked, slipping a hand back into the pocket to activate the recorder again. She stood back form the cell and looked in on her mother.

"I said that you were a stupid little whore." she spoke the words with a shred of dignity before lapsing into a screaming tirade. "You conniving little bitch! Look what you've done to me." Emily didn't realize that she was so close to the bars as the withered hand snaked out and grabbed her. She was too stunned at her mother's strength to pull away. She stared into the yellowed eyes, seeing the monster that dwelled within. "Look at your mother! Look!" Emily couldn't tear her eyes away as she felt nails digging into her cheek as her mother shook her. Her forehead banged against the bars and she felt the nails digging deeper into the soft skin on her cheek. The screams began in her head, unleashed by the sudden gout of fear. Emily was roughly torn away from her mother's grasp and she felt herself hit the wall. She panted, watching an orderly throw open the cell door and storm in to subdue the crazed woman. The orderly who had escorted her down there stood beside her.

"Are you okay Doctor?" he asked, staring alternately between the screaming woman in the cell and Emily. "Damn, I never thought she was strong enough to do something like that."

"I'm fine." Emily replied, collecting her hat and purse from where they had fallen. She turned to thank the orderly when she saw the concern in his eyes. "What?"

"You're bleeding." He pointed to the right side of her face. Four deep scratches lined her cheek with a fifth coming down below her eye. Emily touched her cheek, pulling her hand back to see the red wet blood covering her fingers. 

"Oh." she just stared at the blood, very aware of the way it felt tracking down onto her jacket lapel. She looked back into the cell, her mother grinned evilly at her, blood visible on her left hand. Emily turned away and ran down the hallway, ignoring the protests of the orderly. Marian Christophersen continues to scream profanity at her, still restrained in her cell. Emily didn't stop running until she reached her car, throwing herself into the drivers seat. Flipping down the visor she opened the lighted vanity mirror. She saw her face covered in blood seeping from the five deep furrows that her mother had left. She touched them again, seeing blood on her fingertips but not really feeling any pain. She leaned across the seat and pulled a first aid kit from the glove compartment. She dabbed the cuts with antiseptic, and washed the blood off the best she could. She heard voices coming across the parking lot and she looked up, seeing the orderly and a staff doctor running towards her car. Emily started the car and jammed it into gear, tires squealing as she roared out of the parking lot. She flew down the road unconscious of her speed and recklessness. She didn't begin to calm until she had reached the highway. She looked up into the vanity mirror again as she sped down the snowy road, seeing the reflection of her father stare back at her. Her father's face after her mother had killed him that night, with the identical cuts on his face. She pushed the image away, but it did nothing for the screams.

*****


	6. Screams in the Locked Palace

The snow has picked up in intensity and softly pillows the ground with white. He is sitting in the office, sipping a cup of tea and flipping idly through the scrapbook she has left on the desk. Pictures, newspaper and magazine clippings, memories filled the volume. Many pictures of the older woman, always with the same bitterness in her eyes. A monster lurks deep in that soul, he can see it from the eyes. Quite the opposite of the little girl, who is fearful but is light in being. He stares, lifting the mug to his lips and sipping the tea as he studies the sketch in front of him. He had no idea she could draw, or draw so well. Surprises weren't to his liking, but as with the piano the other night, her's were mostly pleasant. The pencil sketch stared back at him, bitterness burning into his mind. This woman, this monster, had hurt the little one. The woman could not be forgiven for that, not in a thousand years. Although, that would be resolved in a very short manner. Protect the ones you love by diminishing their enemies. The squeal of tires in the front drive pulls his attention from the book. He closes it, coming from the office to look out the windows, seeing her hunched against the snow, fedora drawn low over her face. He waits in the hallway as she comes through the door. Something is terribly wrong. She has been hurt deeply.

*****

She slammed the car door and trudged through the drifting snow. The fat flakes stung as they were whipped against her cheek. Emily reached up, brushing hair out of the cuts, wincing slightly and pulling her hand back to find fresh blood on it. She reached out with her right hand, turning the knob and pushing the door open. Pushing the door closed she leaves a partial handprint on the door, marked with her blood. Edward stands back in the hallway, shock running through him at the sight of the blood on the door. he remains calm, watching Emily remove the fedora and her jacket, hanging them on the empty hooks.

"Are you okay, Emily?" he asked stepping forward. The metallic, brassy smell of fresh blood hangs heavy in the air. He can only see her face in profile, the left side of her face unblemished. Her eye flicks towards him, her mouth opening to whisper.

"No." she turned to face him, the right side of her face bloodied and injured. "She…" Emily was cut off as Edward grabbed her, leaning close to her face and reaching to brush the hair out of the wounds. She stood silently as he examined the furrows her mother had left.

"Who did this to you?" he hissed in her ear, unable to keep a firm grip on his anger.

"She did. She grabbed me through her cell." she looked up and met Edward's eyes, clearly seeing herself in them.

"Oh, Emily. We need to get you fixed up. Do you have a first aid kit?"

She nodded. "Better, my father's old practice in the carriage house. I still keep it stocked, medical license and all, you know." she pulled herself from his grip and felt a strange reluctance at parting. "Come on." she led him out the front door and across the lawn. She unlocked the first door when they reached the carriage house, reaching for a light switch inside. They stood in a modestly appointed waiting room, one that had not seen patients in years. She pushed through another door and led him into the medical office. Edward took over from there, scanning the room and instructing Emily to sit in the examination table. Within minutes, he had assembled the necessary objects on a rolling tray and was gently washing the blood from Emily's cheek. She sat quietly, wincing slightly at the sting of the cold antiseptic, but not protesting his ministrations. Carefully, Edward placed two butterflies across the deepest cut under her eye. The other cuts weren't bad, they just produced a lot of blood. She blinked as she felt his breath against her neck, shocked at the emotions she felt course through her. Edward noticed as she tensed.

"Did I hurt you?" genuine concern in his voice.

"No, Edward. I'm fine." she traced the bandages in her cheek. "Thank you."

A smile broke across Edward's grim features. "You're very welcome, Emily. Now, tell me what happened." he watched as Emily hopped down from the table, and began to speak softly.

"My mother, she called me back to her cell as I was leaving. I didn't realize I was standing so close to the bars. She reached out and grabbed me, shaking me and digging her left hand into my face." she shook her head, angry with herself for letting it happen. "The orderlies saw it on the camera and came down there. One of them pulled me from her grasp while the other went into the cell to subdue her."

Anger flared in Edward's eyes again. "Didn't they notice that you were bleeding? That you'd been hurt, Emily?" he demanded, watching her start to walk out of the room.

She turned back and met him, her eyes as cold as a glacier. "Yes. I didn't realize that I was bleeding. I just wanted to escape from the screams." she pushed the swinging door open and walked through the waiting room. Edward followed, being dropped into darkness as she shut off the lights. Snow swirled in through the door as she opened it. She took off across the snow covered lawn, heading for the farmhouse. Edward finally caught her once she was inside again.

"What screams, Emily?" he asked gripping her arm. He was being drawn in again, Moth to the flame. 

"Her screams. I lock them away, far away so they can't reach me. " she whispered, not trying to break his hold on her or meet his eyes. She felt Edward lean in close to her, once more whispering in her ear.

"Do you wan them to stop, Emily?"

"Yes." the word fell from her lips, a raindrop in a puddle.

"I can make them stop, Emily." he hissed, his voice low and intense. Emily shivered, closing her eyes. "Do you want me to make them to stop?"

Something tingled in Emily's brain. She snapped her eyes open and pulled away from Edward. She was staring at him, fear was tantalizingly close. He had a hungry look about him, his eyes almost glowing with it. 

"Pardon me." he finally said, stepping past Emily and heading up the stairs. Emily was helpless to move, eyes locked on him as he ascended. The doorbell startled her, and she whirled to face the door. A single figure stood on the porch, swirled in the snow. She cracked the door, trying to calm herself.

"Package for Dr. Christophersen." the delivery man intoned. Holding a clipboard out to Emily.

"Yes, thank you." she signed on the designated line and received the thick manila envelope. The return address was marked for Baltimore. 

"Have a nice day, ma'am." the delivery man turned away, and she nodded absently, closing the door. She retreated to her office, carefully laying the package on her desk. She retrieved the letter opener form the kitchen and closed the office door behind her. She still sat in the office hours later, poring over the file, never hearing Edward slip out the front door.

*****


	7. Silence in the Locked Palace

" …And, while with silent, lifting mind I've trod

The high untresspassed sanctity of space,

Put out my hand, and touched the face of God."

From a poem by pilot John Gillespie Magee, Jr

*****

Emily stood silently in the kitchen, sipping her tea and looking at the heavily falling snow. She sighed and turned back to the file that lay spread across the counter. She set the mug down next to the sink and picked the small tape recorder and turned it on again. She had been taking notes for two weeks now on it, musing over the Lecter profile she was building. Today, Agent Starling had sent tapes of her conversations with Dr. Lecter. She had begun listening to them, hearing Starling's voice ring clear from her living room speakers. The ringing of the phone had interrupted her listening and she paused the tape, lunging across the couch for the phone. It wasn't him, and she cradled the phone moments later, biting her lip. Edward had left two weeks ago, gone like the wind. He had left a note, tucked inside her sketch diary, but it contained nothing more than an apology and a promise to return. She had sat and cried the morning she had found it, blaming herself for his absence. The phone call she had received that morning had brought her back to her senses. The director at the hospital was on the other end of the line. Emily sat unmoving, unfeeling as he explained what had happened. Marian Christophersen was gone.

The details were gruesome, Emily had viewed the tape. She had watched as her mother hit and shattered the mirror that hung on her cell wall. The lone watch nurse had thrown open the cell door, trying to stop the crazed woman. She had been rewarded for her bravery with death. Emily had already written a letter of grievance to the nurse's husband and family, extending her deepest sorrows. Her mother had then cut her own throat, bleeding to death before the doctors could reach her. Emily had buried the woman in the cold ground, relief flooding her as she watched the last shovel of earth be thrown on the grave. The screams had ceased abruptly at that point, and Emily left the cemetery in peace. 

But her mind drifted back to Edward as she settled back into the couch. She had a transcript of a psychological evaluation in her hands, one done by the late Dr. Frederick Chilton. She flipped through it aimlessly. Same old song and dance, the same things every other Ph.D. had said about Lecter. Looking for a different angle, she rose and approached the stereo. Instead of pressing play on the tape from Starling that was in the A deck, she put on an old Aaron Copland tape. The strains of 'Simple Gifts' filled the house as she went back to the kitchen. 

She was pawing through the stack of papers, looking for something. Anything. The song came to an end and silence crackled momentarily over the speakers as 'Fanfare For The Common Man' came on. Her finger tapped the beat as she pulled out an old copy of the tabloid. She spread the copy of _The National Tattler_ on a clear spot on the counter. She was flipping through the pages, looking for the story touted on the cover. She found it, running under the byline of Freddy Lounds. The headline was accompanied by a photo of Will Graham, standing outside the now defunct Baltimore Hospital for the Criminally Insane. 

She felt a chill in the kitchen but ignored it as she read over the article, if one could call it that. There was a picture of Lecter accompanying the story as well. She nearly jumped out of her skin when the voice of Clarice Staling echoed through the house. She glared over at the speakers, the Copland tape must've ended and switched over to the other deck. She was about to marched over and shut it off when Lecter's voice hissed over the speakers. She cocked her head to one side, listening. She slowly looked down at the grainy photo in the _Tattler_. It all came together suddenly, and Emily placed a hand over her mouth. She picked the page up, peering at the photograph. The eyes, she had seen those eyes before. 

Emily dropped the paper, pulling a magnifying glass out of the drawer that was under the counter. She looked at the photograph, whispering to herself. "My god, Edward….Dr. Hannibal Lecter." she didn't feel the breath on the back of her neck, didn't sense the presence behind her. 

"Thrill us with your acumen, Agent Starling. What does he do? What needs does he serve? You'll be close to the way you'll capture him if you can make effort to answer." Lecter's voice cut through Emily's thoughts like a knife. She began to turn, holding the _Tattler_ and staring at it absently. She hadn't taken a step when the hands closed on her shoulders, pushing her back against the counter. The paper fell to the floor, fluttering slightly like a dying bird. She gasped as she looked up at the person restraining her. It was him, he was smiling ever so slightly, watching her.

"Hello, Emily."

She just stared, trying to work her mouth. "Dr. Lecter." she finally managed, unable to tear her eyes from his gaze. Static crackled from the speakers in the living room. He looked out there, frowning at the noise. He released his grip and spoke softly.

"Why don't you go and turn off that tape, Emily. Then we can have a little chat." he moved aside and Emily slipped out, walking into the living room. She bent and hit the power button on the stereo. The sudden silence pounded in Emily's ears, she stood back up and looked back into the kitchen. Dr. Lecter was setting the tea kettle on the stove. He met her gaze and raised a hand, beckoning her back to the kitchen. She obeyed, and silently wondered about her lack of fear. No screams, no fear, nothing but a feeling of calm. She came to stand at the same spot by the counter and waited, silent. Dr. Lecter removed two mugs from the cabinet and stepped to stand in front of her. He studied her, tilting his head to one side, his stare penetrating into her thoughts.

"Are you afraid of me, Emily?"

Not a tremor in her voice as she answered. "No."

"Really? You should be afraid of me. Haven't you read the stories they print about me?" he asked, leaning close to her. Her face remained calm. "Hannibal the Cannibal."

"I think that's a crude name." she shook her head, showing her distaste for the nickname.

He blinked. "It is an apt name." he reached into the drawer and pulled a sharp filet knife from it. He looked at the blade cover and carefully removed it. The knife glinted evilly in the light. "So you're truly not afraid of me, hmmm?" he laid the knife against her cheek. Emily felt the cold blade pressing gently against her skin. 

"No, Dr. Lecter, I'm not afraid of you." she repeated quietly, seeing the knife at the edge of her vision. 

"Really now? That is interesting." he let his hand and the knife drift down to her neck. 

She met his eyes, the maroon glint in them, reflecting in her own. The screams had stopped when her mother died, she had control again. "You won't kill me. You _can't_ kill me, no more than you could kill Clarice Starling." she didn't break the stare, and she felt rather than saw his surprise.

The blade pressed a little harder, drawing a tiny drop of blood. "You really believe that?" His face was inches from hers, she could feel the breath of his words on her lips. So close. She closed her eyes and lifted her chin defiantly.

"Yes. That's your downfall Dr. Lecter, you can't hurt the ones you love."

*****


	8. Interludes of the Damned

"You can't hurt the ones you love." her voice rang through the hallways of his mind palace. He could not shutter it away as he had with so many others. Dr. Lecter settles back into his chair, closing his eyes for a moment and seeing hers. She had seen herself in his eyes, and she was enthralled by it. Now he understood what she had felt. When she had looked back into his eyes, he saw himself reflected back. He has never encountered anyone like her, not even with his dear Clarice. Another echo resonates in the halls as he sits with his eyes closed. One from a very long time ago, indeed.

"Do you know how you caught me, Will?" asks Lecter, head tilted to one side, studying the man standing outside the cell.

"Goodbye, Dr. Lecter. You can leave messages for me at the number on the file." Graham walked away.

"Do you know how you caught me?" Lecter asks again, Will Graham is now out of his sight, but he can hear the footsteps in the hallway. He smiles to himself as he answers his own question. "The reason you caught me is that we're _just alike_." Lecter hears the great steel door at the end of the hall clang shut. Graham is gone, leaving Lecter alone in his cell. "We're just alike." he repeats, laying back on the cot and feeling the weave of the pillow against his cheek. _Just alike_. 

Something about Emily struck him in the same way it had with Will that day. He would never dare to intentionally, or unintentionally, hurt Emily as he did Graham. Goodness no. Emily, whether she knew it or not, they were just alike. He opens his eyes and looks across the small hotel room. The lights were dim, and he could clearly see out the window. He stood and looked out into the clear night. She was out there, safe in her home tonight, no doubt wondering when he'd be back. He smiled, showing his small white teeth. He would not disappoint her, he would be back.

*****

A glass of white wine sits atop the piano lid at arm's length, untouched after being set there. Emily sits on the bench, staring into the distance, hands playing across the keys. The tune changes as her thoughts drift aimlessly. What began with 'Rhapsody in Blue' by Gershwin through 'Moonlight Sonata'. As she blinked, her hand trembled. The music stooped momentarily as she touched the small cut on her throat. Lightly, she begins to play 'Homage', a piano solo by Jeff Fallen. It seems appropriate for the moment, she closed her eyes letting the music wash over her. She could see his face clearly in front of her as he pulled the knife from her throat. She had idly wondered if it was a test of some sort, and if she had passed. Three days, and she could still recall the smell of lavender on his hands. She had watched as he placed the knife on the counter behind her and lifted a hand to her cheek. He traced the scabs on the right with his fingers before laying his left hand against her cheek fully, sans thumb. She had pressed against it, felt the warmth and softness. She had not expected what he had done next.

With eyes locked with hers, Lecter had leaned forward and kissed her. She let him, let him deepen the kiss as her body responded. She blinked when he had broken the contact a moment later. Her breath trembled as it came from her lips, he however remained stoic. Not a single emotion tracing across his features. Nothing in those pale maroon eyes, either, except her reflection. He stepped away studying her, then turning away. Plucking his fedora and overcoat from where they sat on her stool. She managed to take a step away from the counter, but not much more. He shrugged on the coat and placed the fedora on his head. He looked back at her as he laid a hand on the door knob.

"Goodnight, Emily. Do give my regards to Clarice when you speak to her again." and without another word, he opened the door and stepped into the night. By the time she had gained control of her motor skills once more, he was gone. She sagged against the door, face resting against the cold pane of the window.

"Goodnight, Dr. Lecter." she whispers, closing her eyes and wondering what would happen next.

*****


	9. Dance With Me

Tralala…. Tidings to you, dear readers. Thank you all so very much fro your kind reviews once again. I am truly and deeply flattered, especially by you dear Troesnaja. You humble this dear author saying I somehow remind you of the great Thomas Harris. I could only wish to write that well. Anyway, if you have enjoyed the tale so far, you will love what comes next. Ta-ta, dear ones.

**************************************************************************************

She is alone in the grand farmhouse, headphones on her ears, listening. He cannot hear what she is listening, but he is fairly certain he knows. She is listening to him. His voice is the one she hears in her halls, echoing through her palace. She has a voice-activated recorder in her lap next to the Walkman. Every now and again, she talks, seemingly to herself, making notes about him. She smiles at one point, closes her eyes, listening. He smiles along with her, it must be the tape of their first evening together. She does not know how close to the truth she came that evening. Something causes her to open her eyes. She looks out the window, straight into the darkness where he stands. He can feel her eyes, but she cannot see him. She smiles again, speaking once again to the empty air above the recorder. She listens through her headphones, and the smile fades. She is alone in the grand farmhouse, and a tear trickles from her eye, trailing down the healing furrow under her right eye. He turns away, seeing another tear in his minds eye. She is a very intriguing woman.

*****

Emily removed the headphones and stopped the Walkman. She thought she was okay, that she could listen to the tape in an objective state of mind. Fat chance. She had done it up until she heard the knife's tap against the tile counter. She walked through the dining room and into the kitchen, the knife still lay on the counter, a tiny fleck of blood marring its mirror finish. She took a bottle of wine from the cabinet above that counter. Santa Ema. She had gone to great lengths to find that bottle, driving all the way in to Montpelier to find it. A day spent on the road, looking for one bottle. She set the bottle on the counter and went out to the china cabinet to retrieve a wine glass and the corkscrew. As soon as she had the worm inserted into the cork the phone rang. Grumbling she left the task at hand and went to find the portable. 

"Go away." she told the phone as she picked it up. Emily checked her watch, eight o'clock, probably a solicitor. "Hello?"

"Dr. Emily Christophersen?" she didn't know the voice on the other end, she began to write it off as a solicitor.

"Yes. Can I help you?" she looked at the line that was lit up in the phone, it was her business line, strange for a solicitor to call her on there.

"This is Jane Morricone with the_ National Tattler_. I assume you've heard of our paper?" 

"Yes. I don't read tabloids though. Goodbye."

"Wait! I'm not trying to sell the paper to you." a laugh from the other end. "You thought I was a solicitor? Oh no, Dr. Christophersen, I want you to confirm that you are working on the reopened Hannibal "The Cannibal" Lecter case for the FBI."

How did? She gripped the phone and tried to keep her anger in. "I cannot comment on that. Goodbye, Ms. Morricone, and do not call me again." she took the receiver from her ear and hit the off button, ignoring the protests from the reporter. She glared at the phone and dropped it on the counter. She finished opening the bottle of wine and began to pour herself a glass. She had just taken a sip and she heard the phone ring again. This time she looked at the line indicator. Business line, again. 

"Hello?"

"Dr. Emily Christophersen? This is Mark DuBois from the _Midnight Star_. I was…" Click.

Emily hit the off button before the man could finish. Someone at FBI had leaked. It was almost eight o'clock, she'd call Starling in the morning. She grabbed her wine and went into the living room, settling back into the couch. She slipped the headphones back on and placed a new tape in the Walkman and hit play. Once again, Dr. Lecter's ominous voice filled her mind.

"There are deep rollers and shallow rollers, Barney." she lost herself listening to his description of Clarice Starling. The Walkman slipped from her hand as she dozed off, falling to clatter against the floor. She never felt the hand that brushed against her face as the headphones were removed. 

Emily didn't know how long she had been asleep when the phone began ringing again. She noticed that the Walkman and headphones sat in the coffee table in front of her. Funny, she didn't remember doing that. She shrugged it off and reached for the phone that also sat on the table.

"Hello?"

"Dr. Emily Christophersen? Hello, it's…" Emily cut the caller off with an angry scream and hurled the phone against the brick fireplace. She watched it shatter and fall to the hearth. She stood there in the semi-darkness, breathing heavily. This could not be happening. 

"Temper, temper Emily." she heard the low voice behind her. She whipped around, already knowing who she'd find there.

"Dr. Lecter." she replied, noticing how eerily his eyes looked in the half light. She didn't fear him, right? 

"Formal names, tonight? Shall I address you as Dr. Christophersen then?" his head is cocked to one side, as if he is trying to screw an auger into her thoughts.

"I prefer Emily, Dr. Lecter." she whispers, wondering what kind of conversation she is having.

A smile, small white teeth. "As do I, Emily." he hisses the name, drawing closer to her. 

"What do you want, Dr. Lecter?" 

"Hannibal." he corrects.

"Hannibal." she echoes him, the name sounding strange on her tongue. 

"Did you like my little present?" he circles her, studying her. She feels like a bug in a ball jar.

"What present?"

A light chuckle, his fingers trail across the back of her neck. "You didn't appreciate the calls from the less than reputable news reporters? I'm so sorry."  
Emily's anger flared, and she lunged at him as he came to stand in front of her again. She clawed for his face as he deftly caught her wrists. Her knees crumpled from the strength of his grip.

"Not smart, Emily." he whispers, looking at the fine hands he holds, loosening his grip just enough for the pain to subside. "Something you learned from you mother, hmmm?"

He looses her left hand, knowing that she won't try to run from him. He places a hand at the small of her back, helping to draw her upright. She stands at her full height, eyes level with his. He smiles again, so close to her. "Dance with me, Emily."

*****


	10. The Good Doctor

He watches her sleep. The deep heavy breathing of a woman lost in her dreams. He flips through her sketch diary as he watches her, feeling the rough texture of the pages, intended for watercolor not the fine micron she uses. She stirs slightly, rolling over to face him, but she does not awaken. Should he lead her on a little fox hunt, play his little games as he did with dear Clarice? Clarice, the name rings clear in his mind. He has not seen Clarice for years, it was the hand of fate that placed him here when Clarice contacted her. She is so much like Clarice, but she has an understanding that Clarice does not. If she can find the key, she will have the ability to unlock Hannibal Lecter. He looks at the pages before him, such detail. Especially in the eyes. He didn't look through it the night he left the note for her, just placed it knowing she would find it there. The page turns, a quick portrait of herself. The next page, her eyes, a blurred reflection in them. The next, her reflection in his eyes. He can almost see the red glint in them, but they but black and white. He cautiously turns the next page. Blank. Carefully, he unclips the micron from the cover and begins to draw. Her eyes, a reflection in them, but not his. The lamb is centered in the pupils, and a tear trickles from her eyes. Clarice is the key to this one. If she is wise, she will figure it out.

*****

Emily has the faint feeling of not being alone in the house. A buzzing at the back of her skull pushes her out of her dreams, jolting her awake. She bolts upright in bed, breathing heavily and looking around the room. Alone. She groans and runs a hand through her hair, tangled from a restless night's sleep. The curtains are closed, something she rarely does. She slips from beneath the sheets and settles her bare feet on the cold floor. She reaches for her watch, and finds her sketch diary atop her bedside table. Funny, she always put it back in the drawer at night. She picks it up, letting the watch slide off the cover and she opens it, wondering if she is about to find another note inside. Turning pages, glimpses of her detailed drawings, then... A page is missing. The torn edges hooked in the wire binding. The one of her reflection in His eyes. Now, looking back at her, her own eyes, drawn with an exceedingly fine hand. A lamb is reflected in them, a tear trailing from the corner of the eyes. Her eyes. She looks to see a small initial inscribed in one corner.

__

-H

Footfalls in the hallway as she makes her way downstairs. She grabs the key from the pencil drawer of her desk and opens the oak filing cabinet on the other side of the room. The sketch diary is dropped on top of the filing cabinet as her fingers riffle through the hanging files in the top drawer. There, labeled in her hand 'Lecter, Hannibal'. She pulls the file loose flipping through it, looking. No pictures. Mentions of his artwork, but no examples of it. Emily is on the phone in moments, mentally urging Starling to pick up the line. Finally.

"Starling." her drawl sounds slightly tinny on the phone.

"Its Emily, Clarice. I need to know if you have any drawings Lecter did." she spared the pleasantries, probably for the better.

"Yes, I believe we have a few. Most were sold on the secondary market. Collectors items for the sick and twisted." came the reply. "Why?"

Lecter's voice echoed in her mind. " Do give my regards to Clarice when you speak to her again." 

"He's here, Clarice. Dammit." she cursed at herself for not thinking, she'd let her emotions blind her. "I should have called immediately, but…"  
The excitement in Starling's voice was weighed equally with dread. "He's there? Now, Emily?" It was tantalizing to know.

"Not now. He is still somewhere in the area. God. I need to see those drawings, Clarice."

"I can fax them to you, but the quality won't be too wonderful."

"Exactly. I can be there within twenty four hours." Emily offered, hearing the silence of indecision on the other line. In her ear the tone of call waiting beeped. Hurry, she urged silently.

"Okay. I'll have them ready for you tomorrow." 

"Thank you. Tomorrow. I have to go, the other line is ringing. Bye." she hung up the phone before Clarice could respond and hit the flash button on the phone. "Hello?"

She was met by the buzz of the dial tone. Sighing she hung up the phone and began to flip through her daytimer. Within the hour she had reservations on United airlines and had a car reserved at Hertz. Upstairs again, packing a suitcase quickly. She hauled the half open case downstairs and threw the Lecter file atop her clothes. Her file with the notes, went into a slim briefcase, along with the sketch diary. She dropped the cell phone and the car charger into the briefcase, the spare battery and desk charger tossed in the suitcase. Lock all the doors, shut the curtains and make sure she had the keys. She had somehow managed a flight that left in six hours. Three on the road to Montpelier and three allowed for security. She grabbed her Lecter tapes as she went out the door, planning to listen to them in the car. 

She finally relaxed as she was seated in the first class cabin on the Boeing 737. She had used her frequent flier miles t get the upgrade. Better to work in comfort than with a bratty kid next to her in Coach. She settled into her seat, sliding the briefcase under the seat in front of her as prescribed. Headphones on and another Lecter tape in the Walkman. She never saw Dr. Lecter as he moved past, hand raised slightly, fingers brushing her pale blonde hair like a puff of air.

*****


	11. Lessons In Making People Mad

He watches closely, noting every detail. For once, it is not someone else, but himself, that is the subject of his attentions. She is dining tonight in the hotels superb restaurant. He wants to watch her somewhere besides the farmhouse. She wasted no time coming to Baltimore, it was hard for him to accommodate her plans on such short notice. He looks into the mirror, maroon eyes reflecting back to him. He carefully straightens the jacket and tie, one that he retained on his untimely departure from Florence. He misses Florence, perhaps he will take her there someday. He took Clarice to Buenos Aires, but she couldn't overcome the emotions that related to him as a killer. She had returned to the States shortly thereafter, amazingly gaining her place back at the FBI. Perhaps… It would be a grand trip nonetheless. In making his decision he would spare no expense. Those plans lay in the future to be decided, and he carefully tucks them away. For now, he has a reservation to keep. He slips into the hall, and catches sight of her, back towards him, walking towards the elevator. Best to take the stairs then. She is a very elegant woman.

*****

Emily sits at a small booth tucked in the corner of the restaurant. Soft strains of the piano in another room float on the air, putting her at ease. It has been a long time since she has treated herself to such luxuries and she enjoys them. The waitstaff is considerate and consummate in attending to her. She looks across the dim dining room, candles flicker in sconces in the walls. As her gaze trails across another booth she feels a chill in her bones. Shaking it off, she turns back to the menu, perusing the dessert selections. Dinner had been a wonderful lobster tail and filet mignon. She remembers the last time she had filet mignon. Her heart aches, to her surprise, as she remembers the dinner that had been prepared for her that night. She selects the Penrose Room raspberries in cream, a recipe imported from the renowned Broadmoor resort in Colorado Springs, Colorado. The young server taking her dessert order looked no older than seventeen, and Emily reflected on that age as she spoke with him. She watched as he let the table and headed for the kitchen, she looked away before she saw him stop at another booth.

Dr. Lecter smiled at the young man as he motioned for him to stop. The man was gracious, ready to accommodate whatever his wish was.

"What did the woman order for dessert?" Lecter purrs, his voice as gentle as silk.

"Penrose Room raspberries in cream, sir."

Delicate, like her. "Please, send a glass of wine to her table. My compliments, of course."

A nod from the young man. "Of course. What wine, sir?" 

"Chateau d'Yquem, vintage nineteen sixty-six if you have it."

A nod, and a smile approving of the choice. "I believe we do, sir."

"Thank you." he smiles as the man moves away. He can see Emily at her table, candle light playing softly on her hair, making the deep blue sapphire at her neck glow like a star. He reflected, the same wine he had offered Clarice, if not the same vintage. Dr. Lecter watches as the young man returns to Emily's table with the dessert and the wine. He is thrilled to see her blush as she receives the wine. She smiles and thanks the man and he walks off to tend to another table. Lecter catches the attention of his own server and requests the bill. He pays it with a Visa card held in the name of Dr. Edward Chilton. Dr. Chilton has very excellent credit and can afford the meal easily. He lays a very nice tip on the table and rises from the booth. Emily is not watching as he makes his way to her. The gentleman, he asks her permission before sitting across from her. For her sake, Emily does not react obversely as she sees him. Her eyes grow wide, but her voice is quiet and calm and she invites him to sit. She makes sure no one is nearby before glaring at Lecter.

"What the hell are you doing here?" she hisses, eyes flashing with trapped lightning.

"That's not very polite of you Emily."

Emily has barely begun the game but is sorely tired of it already. "Right now, I don't really care. Following me? Trying to get back to Clarice?" her irritability is showing through in her eyes as she finishes the last raspberry. Her words have just the effect she was hoping for.

"Trying to tempt me, Emily?" Lecter's voice drops a notch as he hisses. Emily just watches, sipping the wine.

"Anything but, Dr. Lecter." she catches the eye of her server and passes him a credit card, ironically the same that Lecter bears in his wallet with Dr. Chilton's name on it. "I don't play games, so if you want that, you'll have to trot back to Starling." she receives the receipt and signs her name to it, leaving the server a very generous tip. With that, she slides form her seat and walks from the restaurant, leaving Dr. Lecter alone. He carefully conceals his anger and follows a few steps behind. She has to wait for the elevator, there is no way she can climb ten flights of stairs in the spindly heels she is wearing. He steps into the elevator behind her and she ignores him, pressing the button for her floor. Within moments of the elevator's rise she is pinned against the wall. The elevator jolts slightly form the commotion and Lecter glaring at Emily. 

_Pushed a few too many buttons, Emily._ she notes to herself, wondering if he is about to kill her. She winces at the pain in her wrist as he releases with his right and grasps them both in his left. She is in no position to fight back. Dr. Lecter is amazing in his speed and strength and Emily is not. She keeps her eyes locked with his, seeing the same hunger that she had seen in the house in them. She hears the jangle of metal and a quiet metallic _click_. She sees the handcuff he has placed on her right hand and then as he places the other cuff on his left. 

"A little trick I learned from dear Clarice. Its handy when you don't want your guest to run off unexpectedly." He backs from the wall, watching Emily as she touches the cold metal with her left hand.

The elevator stops and chimes quietly, and the doors open. Lecter carefully drapes Emily's light wrap over their wrists as he leads her down the hallway. They stop in front of her door and he waits, Emily stifles her objections and digs the card key out of her clutch. They are inside in moments and Lecter pushes her back into a chair at the little table by the window in the bedroom. With unerring ease he unlocks his cuff and locks it around the chair's arm. Emily is staring, and feels a prickle of fear in her mind. She opens her mouth to speak, but is stopped as he lays a finger against her lips.

"Shhh. Now, I will be right back, need to run and get something from my room. No screaming or anything, Emily, we do not want to make a scene. Understand?" She nods, "Okey dokey then. I'll be right back."

He's gone and Emily's eyes scan the room, looking for something, anything. The only thing on the table is a note pad and a brochure touting the attractions in and around Baltimore. Great, just great, and to make matters worse Clarice would be here soon to go over the drawings. Lecter couldn't have known about that, could he? She tries to scoot the chair across the room, if she can reach the telephone… Oops, the door has opened and she can hear the heavy footfalls coming across the room. Dr. Lecter is not happy when he finds her halfway across the bedroom.

"Industrious, aren't we? Let's just go back to the table now." he easily pushes the heavy chair back to the table and sits opposite her, untucking a small pouch from under his arm. Emily has a sick feeling in her stomach.

"What… What is in there?" she asks, blinking away unbidden tears.

His voice is placid, calm as he answers the question, unfolding the pouch. "Nothing that will hurt you, I assure you. Did you really think I would hurt you Emily?" the laugh, "You yourself said it, I cannot hurt the ones I love. You were so very close to the truth on that."

Keep him talking, keep him busy until Clarice can get here. "Ummm… Why was I close, Dr. Lecter?"

"I do love Clarice, Emily. With all my heart. You, well… I have something deeper for you than love." he slides a syringe from the strap that is holding it in place, along with a tiny vial. With the care and precision of a practiced hand he filled the needle, tapping it to release the air. The needle itself is fine, Emily can barely see its glint in the light. He takes her left wrist pressing it down against the chair, firmly restraining her. "Now, Emily, hold still. I promise this won't hurt."

*****


	12. Burying the Screams

Authors Note: A little mistake in the previous chapter, the result of my lacking math skills at four in the morning. The vintage for the wine should have been Emily's birth year, 1963, not 1966. Really, I can do math, just not at four in the morning accompanied by Chopin. As for everyone wanting to know what happens next, well I can only offer this, dear readers: You'll just have to read along, now won't you? Ta-ta.

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Clarice Starling steps from the elevator and enters the long hallway on the tenth floor. She glances quickly at the room number scribble don the scrap paper in her hand then stuffs it into her pocket. She carries with her a large folder, filled with drawings and sketches done by Dr. Hannibal Lecter. She stops in front of the appointed door, shifts her load, and knocks on the door. Silence echoes for a moment before a female voice inside calls out.

"Who is it?" 

"Clarice Starling." Why does this feel like a knock-knock joke, she wonders for a moment before hearing the locks snap back in the door. Clarice puts on a smile, preparing to meet Dr. Emily Christophersen for the first time. The smile fades as someone else entirely opens the door.

"Good Evening, Agent Starling." Dr. Lester purrs, the sound of ripping cloth.

Starling is instantly set on edge, hand dipping down to the holstered sidearm on her hip. He places a hand on hers, stopping her in mid motion.

"I don't believe that will be necessary." he steps aside, opening the door wide. "Do come in, Clarice."

Always, no matter what, that same little thrill when he says her name. She steps inside warily, watching Lecter from the corner of her eye. "Where's Emily?"

"In the bedroom." he replies smoothly, placing a hand on Starling's back to guide her through the living room.

"Dr. Lecter, if you've done anything to hurt her, I'll…"

"You'll what, Agent Starling? Hurt me? Shoot me? Kill me?" he mocks her empty threat as they pass into the bedroom.

"Take away your freedom." she finishes flatly, eyes on him.

"I highly doubt that." he looks to Emily, who is still handcuffed to the chair. "Emily, your guest has arrived."

Clarice gasped as she saw Emily in the chair. Slightly slumped and head tilted to one side. Her eyes had a strange far-away look to them as she looked towards Lecter's voice.

"What did you do to her?" Clarice is frightened as she stands still, unable to move towards the drugged psychiatrist.

"As I assured her, I will assure you, nothing that will hurt her. We are having a little therapy session. The same drugs I used on you after I took you from Mason's house. You do remember that, don't you Clarice?" Clarice blinked and stared at him. He carefully slips the folder from underneath Clarice's arm and takes it to the table, laying it in front of Emily. "I see you brought my drawings. Did Emily tell you what I drew for her?"

"No." 

He turns back to Emily, catching her attention. "You didn't tell Clarice what I drew for you, Emily? That is not very polite."

"Sorry." Emily replies, her voice soft and slightly slurred. Her eyes find Clarice and she tries to focus on her. "He drew me a lamb."

The dredging of the memory is palpable on Clarice's face. "Dr. Lecter…."

"Sit down, Clarice." he instructs, pulling the other chair back from the table. Clarice does and looks up at him. It is intimidating for even the people who have been closest to him to have Hannibal Lecter hovering over them. "Talk if you feel like it, I'll fetch us some refreshments."

Emily is watching Clarice intently, even through the drugged haze she still has a grasp on herself. Lecter steps away to fetch them some refreshments, and Emily whispers to Clarice.

"I'm sorry, Clarice." there is heavy remorse in her voice. "I didn't know he followed me here. I didn't know…"

"What has he been doing to you, Emily?"

A shake of her head as she answers. "Listening to screams, his and my own. He told me that I was like you, that you heard screams too." there was a slight innocence, partially imparted from the drugs. "What screams do you hear?"

Dammit Lecter. "The lambs. The screams of the lambs at the slaughter."

"Why do you hear their screams, Clarice?" Emily asked, still a psychiatrist. Somewhere deep in her brain she felt the strange effects lessening slightly.

A slow deep breath before she spoke. "Because I couldn't save the lambs."

Dr. Lecter stands at the edge of the room, listening to the conversation in slight surprise. Emily must have a very strong will to be able to conduct even the sketchiest session in her present state. 

"Not even one?" Emily asks, head now upright and voice steadier.

"No." 

"Do you blame yourself, for the loss of the lambs, Clarice?"

"Yes." 

Emily's free hand came down on the table with a thump. "Don't. You blame yourself and that's why the screams keep coming back to you. Since then, haven't you saved many more things in your life?"

Her head bobs, nodding and Dr. Lecter is intrigued. Clarice had opened to him all those years ago, but it taken time and the use of the same drugs he had used tonight on Emily to get her to do so. Here, a woman she barely knew, was delving into her mind while half drugged. It was very fascinating to observe.

"You can't blame yourself for the loses in your life, you can't live your life trying to serve what has passed." she smiles at Clarice. "Dr. Lecter helped you get past your father's death, but you never let go of that lamb."

Clarice found her voice, "How did you let go of your screams, Emily?"

She blinks, eyes dim slightly as she delves through memory. "I buried my mother." she whispers, voice lilting and heavy on the final D's in the words. "Buried her, and with the last clod of dirt, the screams from her fell silent." The lips curved upwards sadly. "I let go of the memories that she had given me and looked to the time before. When she wasn't screaming in my mind."

Lecter is now standing behind Clarice, looking down at the table and the picture Emily has picked, unseeing, from the folder. She passes it to Clarice, finger on the edge of it. Lecter cannot draw breath as Starling takes the drawing. A little girl, sitting in a washtub with a bubble in her hands. Clarice knows who the little girl is, for she resides in her memory palace. Her mouth opened to name the girl but Lecter beat her to it.

"Mischa." whispered breath causing Emily and Clarice to look up at him.

Emily is a bit smug as she looks from Dr. Hannibal Lecter to Special Agent Clarice Starling. "Even Hannibal hears screams, but the difference from you and I, is that those screams are his own."

*****


	13. Admittance

Emily awake the next morning to find herself laying in her hotel bed, covers tucked gently around her. She had no recollection of how she got into bed, nor much of the events from last night. She rubbed at her wrist, relieved that it no longer bore a handcuff. _That_ she did recall. And the needle slipping into her arm, but beyond that, well it was quite a blur. Wobbling, he pulled herself from the bed and made it to the bathroom before the nausea hit her. Her head pounded and she sat on the cool tile floor, back against the bathtub. Something she had done to piss him off. In the restaurant, yes, she had provoked him, but she knew she had done more later on. Dimly, she recalled Clarice's face, and the tears. Great, was she running around making people cry and not remembering why? A knock on the door brought her to her feet. She grabbed a bathrobe and slipped into it as she padded across the room. Nothing out of order in the living room, she noted. She peeked through the peephole and didn't see anyone out there. Great, not only do we have amnesia but we're hallucinating now too? She cracked the door anyhow and looked down to find an envelope tucked under the door sill. She plucked it and closed the door, careful to lock it again. She sat on the plush sofa and looked at the envelope. The fine copperplate script was recognizable immediately. She slid a finger under the flap and had the mental image of Dr. Lecter's pointed tongue running along it, moistening the glue. She shook it off, and finished opening the letter. Two small white pills slipped out and she pulled the sharp creased note to read it.

__

Dear Emily,

Our little session had some unexpected results last night. I did not foresee that you would be able to root out Clarice's problem with screaming lambs so quickly. Nor did I expect you to address my own screams. I am leaving for Vermont this morning and should be gone from the hotel by the time you read this. Do not worry about the expense for your room, it has been covered. Psychiatrist to psychiatrist, I would like to have a discussion when you return. Enjoy your lunch with Clarice today. I will see you upon your return. Ta ta.

Hannibal Lecter, MD

PS- I thought that you might find the following poem rather interesting. It is by one Samantha Bridges. Also, the pills I have included should help with your headache, an unfortunate side effect of the drugs I used. Fell better, Emily. -H

Emily unfolded the second piece of stationary find the poem, inscribed in his precise script.

__

Silences echo in the palace deep

lilting down the corridors.

room to room the spirit flies

looking in on memory.

vaulted ceilings in glit'ring night

scored by beams of purest light

cumbered walls of granite gleam

grey on grey, stone on stone

colored by the richest tapestries

echoing our histories

footfalls in the palace deep

traverse the length and breadth

dare to trespass the final threshold

'neath a canopy of starlight

Emily sighed and refolded the note, but kept the poem in her hand with the pills and went to get some water. She reread the poem while sitting on the edge of her bed, wondering at it. She set it on the table, along with the envelope, as she passed back into the bathroom. The memory of a little girl danced before her eyes as she touched the table. A little girl smiling, a bubble in star shaped hands. It frustrated Emily to no end not being able to recall what had happened. She resolved to ask Clarice about it later, for now, she slipped from the robe and her silk pajamas and ran water in the tub. Time to join the land of the living.

*****

Emily sags in the seat in first class. She is still tired and not wanting to go back to Vermont. He will be there, waiting, when she walks in the door. She doesn't want to deal with him right now, but she must. She slips the Walkman from her briefcase and puts on her headphones. The tape is from lunch today with Clarice. Her mind begins to wander as she listens to the tape. She has a window seat and she looks out the small oval, eyeing the tarmac as it rolls beneath her. They taxi slowly to the runway and Emily listens to the idle chit-chat on the tape. The lumbering jet pauses at the start of its takeoff roll, and she feels the vibrations and roar as the engines spool up. She is pushed back in her seat as they begin the roll. The bump of the gear leaving the runway and they are airborne. Emily releases her grip form the armrests and opens her eyes. She had squeezed them shut unknowingly right as the plane accelerated. She looks out the window once more, seeing the city spread beneath them. Clarice's voice is clear in the head phones.

"Did he write this for you, Emily?"

"No, it was penned by a Samantha Bridges. What do you make of it?"

"A description of a memory palace."

"Memory palace. A mnemonic device used by ancient scholars, correct?"

"Ummm, yes. Where are you going with this, Emily?"

"Dr. Lecter helped you build your own, didn't he?"

"Yes."

"With room for her. The little girl in the drawing?"

A sharp intake of breath, Emily blinks as she listens. "Yes. Mischa."

"He couldn't save her, but he couldn't let go. Did he tell you why he put her in your palace and not his own?"

A five second pause, Emily tapped the time out on her armrest. "Not that I recall. Why do you want to know, Emily?"

"For the profile. It may be the missing key I need. May I ask why you are having me do the profile for you?"

"The FBI is making plans to attempt to recapture him. Everyone else with contact with him is dead. Crawford, Graham, Krendler. I'm the last one. So, even with the past events, they want me on the case."

"I see." two second pause. "Clarice, you know that I can't just turn him over to you."

"The same problem I have. He gets to you, doesn't he?"

A deep sigh on the tape, echoed by another from her lips as she listens to her reply. Her mouth moving to echo the words. "More than I'd like to admit."

*****


	14. A Viewing of the Soul

Oooo. I have come to like the little author's notes at the top of the page, if for nothing more than to amuse myself. I feel the last chapter was lacking, but the end of the tale will more than make up fro downtimes in the tale. LOL Its coming, I promise. The poem in the last chapter was thrown in on a whim, a cheap ploy for myself. Thank you to all who have reviewed. It is rewarding to know that my work is actually soliciting a response from you. I will stop now, before I ramble on for the rest of the page and forget about the story. Don't fret, dear ones, I would never do that to you. Tralala and off we go.

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Relief swept over her as she entered the farmhouse, finding it empty and herself alone. On the flight back and the drive home from Montpelier, she had convinced herself that there would be a monster lurking in her living room upon her return. But within her relief, she felt a little saddened by his lack of appearance. She wanted to confront him, strip him down to his soul and examine him piece by piece until she was satisfied. That thought in itself made her wonder momentarily about her own sanity. He could do the same to her, and he had already begun. She left her suitcase at the bottom of the stairs, taking the briefcase into the office. She removed her file from the case and dropped it on the desk. She had promised the finished profile by Friday. Three days in which to complete the dissection of the monster. Enough of the dissection to appease the FBI, but not enough to appease her own thirst for knowledge.

*****

Dinner was a sordid affair for Emily that evening. She didn't feel like leaving the house to go into the village, get something from the store. Nor did she feel much like cooking, in the end, she rooted a Tupperware container of chili from the freezer. Even after going through the motions of preparation, she didn't feel like eating it. The night was moving slowly, like it was mired in the moment. Emily sat on the couch, scratching her notes and talking to the tape recorder. Slowly building the psyche of Dr. Hannibal Lecter. Sometime around midnight, she stops, returns to the kitchen looking for a bottle of wine. The Santa Ema is gone, but she wants something more than that. Her father's image tingles at the back of her mind, watching him in the basement, his small wine cellar. She had adored the bottles since she was young, knowing that they were special, but not knowing how. She finds herself at the basement door, hand resting on the knob. Memories flood through her, and she succumbs to the past.

_"Hey, Emily!" it is the taunting call of her cousins, echoing up the stairs. She turns from her practice at the piano, looking towards the sound. "Come play with us!" Laughter echoes up the stairs and reaches Emily's ears. She looks at the piece she is supposed to be practicing, and weighs the decision to play against the monotony of scales. She slides from the bench and goes to the stairs. _

"Hey Emily!" the call comes up the stairs again, and Emily peers around the door. She doesn't like the basement, they had found Daddy down there. But the need to play with her kin is tugging at her. They are all older than her, and all but Sheila are male. Sheila is a tomboy to the grandest extent, and hers is the next voice that comes to her ears.

"Emily, come play with us."

"I'm coming!" she calls back. She edges down the stairs, careful in the dim basement. She sees her cousins and moves towards them.

"Hey, Emily. Look at this!" Sheila and Stephen are facing her, grinning and Martin has his hands behind his back. Emily steps forward.

"What? What is it?" she is curious to see what Martin has behind his back. Sheila and Stephen are giggling.

"Worms!" Martin cries, flinging a handful of worms and dirt at her face. Emily screams throwing her hands up to ward off the surprise. The three cousins think it's a riot and as Emily blinks, wiping the dirt off her face she sees them laughing at her.

"That wasn't funny, Martin." she chokes out, trying not to cry. Since she had been forced to join the family, they had resented her. 

"Yes it was. You should have seen your face." 

"No it wasn't. Now apologize or I'm going to…"

"Going to what? Run and tell my mommy?" he laughs, his lean figure at least a head taller than Emily. "She doesn't care. Your daddy can't protect you anymore either."

Anger flares in Emily and Sheila is the only one to see the fire in her eyes as she lunges at Martin. He falls hard to the floor and by the time Sheila pulls her away, he is unconscious. Stephen kneels next to his brother, looking at the bloodied face. Emily has broken his nose, although she won't know that until later.

"Look what you did!" Stephen cries.

"He was only playing a joke Emily." Sheila adds, looking from the blonde headed girl to her prone brother. Emily isn't listening, she is looking at the cut on her knuckles. Blood is welling from it and she presses it to her lips. She turns away form her cousins and goes back up the stairs. Water is heard running followed after a few moments by the sound of the piano. She feels no pity for her cousin, who is being helped up the stairs now. She practices her scales, eyes firmly fixed on the sheet music in front of her. She sees the three pass by, headed for the stairs, reflections in the hall mirror. She smiles, stopping her practice and raising the bloodied knuckle to her lips. No pity, in fact, she feels rather good.

*****

She is standing at he bottom of the basement stairs, looking about in the dark. Her hand finds the light switch, illuminating the basement. She walks to the door to the wine cellar and pauses. If she looks carefully, she can still see traces of Martin's blood on the concrete floor. She opens the door and peruses her father's wine selection. She lifts a bottle, studying it in the dim light. The contents are the color of Martin's blood, and she wonders on the events of the past for a moment. She sees Dr. Lecter's face before hers, a reflection in the wine. She recalls the pleasure she felt in injuring her cousin, the taste of the blood on her knuckle, and blinks, coming to a realization. Her pleasure in violence, does it make her any less of a monster than her mother, or Dr. Lecter?

*****


	15. Just Alike

He finds it perversely amusing as he listens to the messages on his cell phone. It is the fifth call in the past two days, she is starting to sound desperate. He muses about her request as he walks along the far side of the lake. Should he or shouldn't he? Professional courtesy if he does comply. Nothing more, but can he promise himself that? She has come to the realization of what she buried inside herself so long ago. She has drawn the monster out, looked it in the eye, and didn't flinch. But, he wonders, coming around the lake, his path now angled to the house, what will she do if the monster consumes her? Will she accept it, acknowledge it presence within herself? Or will she be crushed by it, and lose it all? Pity if she is crushed by it. He sees the light in her bedroom flick on, bright in the coming darkness. He watches as her silhouette moves in the light, and he decides. He will comply with her request, she needs to know that she is just like him.

*****

The phone rings. Once, twice, Emily tenses under the sheets waiting for a third ring. It doesn't come. She lets her eyes close, desperately seeking the sleep that will not come. When she does sleep, she is tormented by her dreams, which she cannot escape. She keeps seeing Martin's face, with the blood spreading to the concrete floor and the looks of accusation in her cousins' faces. She keeps feeling the pleasure surge up in her, the taste of the blood on her lips. Her eyes flick open, looking into the dark room that surrounds her. Growling low, she cast the sheets off and sits on the edge of the bed. The night air prickles her skin, goosebumps rose quickly and she shivered. She padded to the bathroom and took a heavy chenille robe from the hook by the door. She makes her way downstairs, listening to the old house creek and settle in the dark. She doesn't turn on any lights, making her way through the main level by memory. The wine she brought upstairs has had time to breathe and she pours the ruby liquid into a crystal glass. She leaves the bottle on the counter, taking the glass with her into the front room.

*****

He sits in the corner, and notices that she doesn't turn on the lights as she makes her way into the kitchen. He listens to the soft clink of the crystal and the heavier one of the wine bottle against the tile. He can feel her as she comes into the front room, and the crystal on the wood of the piano. Dr. Hannibal Lecter is seated to the left of the piano, in one of the Queen Anne chairs by the window. He can smell the wine, mingled with her scent. He can smell the fabric softener in her skin form the sheets that she has laid in, the scent of Crabtree & Evelyn Jojoba Oil lotion too. He hears the lid covering the keyboard lift, creaking softly as the hinges need to be oiled. A first few tentative notes chime softly from the keys, her fingers exploring in the dark. He admires her deftness and ability as a melody softly emerges. She coaxes song from the darkness, pouring herself into the music. He rises, coming to stand behind her. He reaches for the glass of wine and she freezes, the last note hanging in the air. He raises the glass to his nose, taking in its bouquet. He sips the wine, and lowers his hand, preparing to replace the crystal on the lid. Before he can, a hand shoots out, shattering the wine glass and continuing to hit him.

*****

Emily is intent on her playing when she feels movement behind her. She waits and hears the wine glass being lifted from the wood. Her fingers leave the keys and she begins to turn on the bench, chenille sliding easily on the polished wood. The hand and the glass are coming back down as she strikes. She doesn't feel the crystal slice her hand as she hits the mass the arm is connected to. She hears the intruder's breath escape and the feet lose balance. She jumps from the bench, scrambling for the light switch across the room. She blinks as the room is illuminated, trying to adjust her eyes. She looks down to see Dr. Hannibal Lecter pushing himself up off the floor. She rolls her eyes and steps over to help him up.

"That wasn't necessary, Emily. I was only tasting your wine."

She fixes him with a glare, eyes slightly bloodshot. "Serves you right." she looked at the mess of wine and shattered crystal on the rug. "What the hell are you doing in here?"

"You aren't sleeping much anymore, are you Emily?"

"No." she is crouching, picking up the larger pieces of the wine glass. She is very aware of his eyes on her. She stands and takes them over to a small wastebasket in the corner, breathing slowly returning to normal. She comes back to the piano bench and sits down on it, hands on her knees.

Dr. Lecter takes her right hand, making her wince slightly as he applies slight pressure on it. Blood wells from a cut on her knuckles. "You're bleeding, dear doctor."

Emily take her hand from him, placing the knuckle to her lips, tasting the blood. Her actions register and she pulls it away, dropping it to her side.

"You did that on purpose." she accuses.

"Ummmm. So I did, Emily. May I ask, how do you feel?"

She is rising and walking from the room, he stands hands at his sides watching. "Go away, Dr. Lecter."

"May I remind you, _you_ called _me_ and asked for _my_ help."

"Not at four thirty five in the morning." comes her reply, she is in the bathroom running water over the cut. She looks in the medicine cabinet. No Band-Aids. She isn't about to go upstairs and leave Lecter down here alone. She doesn't want him wandering around her house unsupervised right now. That, and it would be _rude_. A wry smile twists her lips as this thought comes to her. She comes out and finds that he has turned on the lights in the hall and the living room. Obviously, he is not going away.

Emily finds him sitting on the couch, waiting patiently. She glares at him and sits down on the opposite end, out of his reach.

"Fine. What do you want?"

He shakes his head. "Tsk tsk, Emily. Right question, wrong person. You were beginning to sound quite desperate in your messages."

She called him, but now she didn't want to admit anything to him, nt after what she just did. "Maybe. Look, I changed my mind, I can handle this on my own."

"Really? Let me ask you then, one little question, how did it make you feel?" he leans slightly forward, Emily can see the depths of his pupils even from across the couch.

"How did I feel? Feel about what, Dr. Lecter?" she is stalling, fumbling for time to organize her thoughts.

"Formalities again. I thought we had moved past that in private. Ah well, back to your question. How did you feel about what you just did, doctor? Did it bring you pleasure to see that you had hurt me? Don't lie now." 

"Yes." she whispered, then repeats a little louder. "Yes."

A smile and a nod. "Good. I thought you did. Now, did you find the taste of blood on your lips to be pleasant? The warmth of it on your tongue?"

Her mind whirls as she considers this. She did find it nice… "Yes, I liked it more than the wine." she hears her voice as if from a distance. She feels to be a spectator, watching herself answer his questions. "The wine was the same color, you know."

"Yes, I know. Now, doctor, tell me, did you every taste Martin's blood?"

Emily can see herself, spindly and eight years old again, her reflection in the mirror. She is washing blood from her face and hands. Not her blood, his. Martin's blood. She looks at her right hand, the one that she cut the knuckle on, looks at his blood on there too. Emily looks in on her past self as the little girl flicks her tongue out and laves the back of the hand, tasting the blood. She hears her voice telling Lecter of the incident, she sees the glow in the eight year old's eyes.

"Very good, Emily. Look at me now." she raises her eyes to his, not noticing that she had been staring at the floor. He presses a knife into her hands. The handle is warm from his pocket and she flips it open, flashing it in the light. 

"Nice." there is silvered light reflected on her face, playing across her lips.

"It is, isn't it? Now Emily, if I were to offer you the chance to have my blood would you?"

She looks at him, eyes glowing as she considers. "Your blood?"

"My blood Emily, my flesh as well, I believe you'd like that." His eyes flick to the blade, curved and wicked, then back to hers. Yes, he can see it now, emerging from the room in the palace where it was locked.

She considers silently then brings her legs up under her on the couch, crawls towards him. She lays the blade against his throat, drawing a drop of red. He watches her, not moving, making nary a sound. "Can you do it, Emily? Or will it make you every bit more of a monster to know that you killed me? Come now, your mother would be proud of you."

Her eyes reach into his, and she pauses, pressure constant on the knife. He can see the change in her face, as the realization hits her. He feels the blade leave his throat and sees her head drop, her breath warm against the cut. His breath catches as she pushes on it with cool fingers, easing the blood to her waiting tongue. It is a very provocative feeling to have her tongue on his throat. She pulls back from him, meets his eyes as she flings the knife across the room. There is a tiny drop resting on her lips and Dr. Lecter lays his index finger on it, taking it form her lips.

"Why didn't you do it, doctor?"

"Emily." she corrects, she feels tired and drunk. "I couldn't kill what I saw."

"What you saw Emily? Was it a monster? A monster who kills?"

A shake of the head and she leans back against the couch for support. "No. There are reasons behind your hunger, Hannibal. I couldn't kill you for that, because I have those same reasons. I understand you."

A smile, and he brushes hair that is dampening with sweat back from her cheek. "Do you know who Will Graham is, Emily?" a nod, the name registers in her eyes. "I told him something once, but I feel that it fits you quite aptly."

She is quiet, and something tells her that he is about to tell her something important. She struggles to quiet the roaring in her mind. "And that is?"

"That you and I are just alike. _Just alike_, Emily." A wink from him and she blinks.

"Just alike. That's what I saw." she mumbles and tries to stifle a yawn. All the missed hours of sleep are catching up to her. Her eyelids are heavy and its becoming a struggle to keep them open. Lecter notices and rises form the couch. She watches as he goes to the blanket chest across the room. He motions for her to lay down as he unfolds the blanket. Emily does, and she feel the blanket being tucked around her.

"Now, before you drift off to sleep, do you remember what I told you, about my not being able to kill you?"

A sleepy nod. "You said that I was so close to the truth, that you couldn't kill the ones you loved. You love Clarice, but you said you felt something deeper for me."

"That's right. Do you know what it is?"

A smile on her lips, eyes closed. "Because we're just alike."

"Very good. To kill you would be tantamount to killing myself. Now get some sleep, we can discuss thing again when you're rested." 

"Just alike." she whispers once more as sleep takes hold. Finally, the dreams do not haunt her.

Dr. Lecter watches the slow rise and fall of her chest, then turns away to find his Harpy. He closes the blade and dims the lights. As he looks at her in the dark he speaks to himself.

"Now, Emily. Now that you know the truth, where do we go from here?"

*****


	16. Where We Go From Here

Hello, again. I want to thank all of you for reading this, and I am truly humbled by your praise. The end is near for this little tale, but do not fret, dear ones. In the good tradition, there will be a sequel. I hope that you will all stay tuned, the next one will require a little patience. Once more, thank you, I hope I did well in your eyes. Now, to the tale…. 

**************************************************************************************

It is strange to see a known serial killer and psychopath sitting on a couch in a perfectly normal home with his arms wrapped around a woman laying curled against him. It is also strange to see the tenderness in his eyes as he watches her fingers exploring the blade she holds. The sunlight catches on the mirrored steel and flashes across their faces. It causes him to blink, leaving a trail of spots across his eyes. She closes the blade and lays it on the coffee table. Two days ago, she didn't look like a woman who could take a life. Last night as she lay sleeping, she looked as innocent as she had as a child. And now, as he brushes a finger across her hair, feeling her contentment in the moment, she still does not look like a monster. She looked like Emily. Sweet, sweet Emily. She had surprised him with the readiness with which she had accepted everything. She had accepted the monster, taking it as a true part of her, not just something that was to be locked away in a dark room. It was no longer a part of her to be shunned. She had accepted him for what he was, and had acknowledged that they were just alike. So much more than love, he kisses the back of her head and she is now gently waving her hand in time to the music. She is more than he had ever hoped for, she would complete him in ways that Clarice had not, could not. 

Ah, Clarice. Clarice hadn't tried to capture him once she knew where he was. Still hadn't tried when she came into Emily's hotel room and found him there. No matter how much she loved him, she would never tell him to stop. And on the same note, she could never bring herself to deny him his freedom, or his life. Clarice had her place in his heart, shared her place in the world with little Mischa. She would always be his incorruptible little Starling. She need only a mirror to show her soul, her deeply ingrained morals and dedication. She would continue to serve the undeserving masters, for it was what she did. And she would continue loving him, for it was also what she did. He feels Emily's head turn in his arms, pressing against his shoulder He looks at her, the pale grey-blue eyes that are as deep as the ocean itself.

"Hmmm?" she has said something, but he is not sure what.

"Tell me again, tell me of Florence." she has the voice of a child at that moment, wanting nothing more than to hear his voice. 

He is indulgent. "Of course, Emily."

She closes her eyes and lets him color her world. He is swiftly carried back there as he spins the tapestry for her. He steps into the Palazzo Capponi in his memory palace, and stands there, inviting her to join him. The smell of the old parchment is heavy in the air, dousing the place with age. She runs her hands over the manuscripts that lay on the desks, feeling them against her fingertips. He watches her with wonder, as she feels the vellum pages and closes her eyes, enthralled. She spins away from him, wandering through the halls. She finds the stairs to the servant's quarters, looking back to him for permission as she mounts the stairs. He nods, following her as she eases upwards. She is speechless as she sees the large painting of the Madonna hanging above the narrow bed. She involuntarily mimics the tilt of the Madonna's head, her eyes meeting the almond shaped one of the painting. She looks back to Lecter and smiles, then she is gone, back down the stairs and heading into the library where she had entered. He takes her hand as he leads her outside, into the sunlit streets of Florence. He introduces her to the sights and smells of the old city, and she is delighted. He watches as she walks along the bridge over the Arno, the late afternoon sun playing her hair and turning it to a pale gold. She was meant for Florence, and he is filled with delight when she turns back to him, smiling as the sun sets behind her. The moment is shattered, as a phone begins its insistent ring.

Emily opens her eyes and lets out a low growl. The phone in the kitchen is ringing, trying to coax her into answering it. Hannibal watches as she moves from her comfortable position against him and walks to the kitchen. He listens to her voice as she answers the phone, and he can still here the beginning Italian she was speaking to him in the Palazzo Capponi. He hears the change in her voice before he senses the danger. Her sentences become quick, chopped to a few words. Her goodbyes to the caller are laden with fear and anxiousness. She emerges in the living room, eyes dim as she comes back to the couch.

"What is it, Emily?" Instinct causing his hand to reach for the knife that is laying on the coffee table.

"The tabloids are running with a story, that I was helping the FBI. On the reopened case." her words are flat, she is contemplating her future. "Clarice wanted to let me know, she's on jump-out squad tonight. She had wanted to call later, but that prevented her form doing so."

Damn the _Tattler_ and all the others. It is partially the result of his doing, trying to provoke her before by telling them that she was working on a profile for the FBI. "Emily, I'm sorry…" the words sound strange in his mouth. Has he ever really apologized to anyone before? She is shaking her head.

"No. They've been talking to the people in town, my patients. Mrs. Grimes. She saw a photograph and recognized you." She is shaking her head as he is rising to his feet. "Clarice is being pulled from the case, they're afraid she might let you escape again." a humorless laugh and she closes her eyes, running her hands through her hair. "God. I knew this was going to happen, but not so soon. Dammit, why did I listen to you when I got the request to do the profile?"

She opens her eyes and realizes that he is no longer on the couch, nor in the living room. She can hear his footsteps in the front hall. No, no, no. She knows what he is going to do and she is powerless to stop him. 

*****


	17. Requiem

The house is quiet in the pre-dawn hours, Emily is curled in her bed, unaware of the commotion that is building on her front lawn. By five, the phone has begun ringing incessantly, and she finally goes to the extent of disconnecting every phone in the house. Silence, blessed silence that lasts about five minutes. Then comes the doorbell and the knocks on the front door. Emily answers it the first time and not so kindly tells them to get the hell off her porch. Strangers wandering her property, trying to peer inside her private life to see if He was there. By seven she has locked all the doors and closed all the curtains. It is rather odd to turn on the TV and find your own home on the screen. All the news channels, each with their own reporters standing on her lawn, speculating on her relationship with Hannibal 'The Cannibal' Lecter.

"Dr. Lecter." she corrects as she grabs her cell phone from the charger. She is glaring at the TV as the person she is calling picks up.

"Sheriff's Office." comes his soft New England accent. 

"Vergne, its Dr. Emily Christophersen." 

"Oh, hey, Doctor. You're the talk of the town right now, what can I do for you?"

She is rolling her eyes and trying not to scream at him. She had never met a man that fit the popular image of the country hick better than Vergne. "Vergne, get up here and get all these people off my property before I decide to have them all arrested for trespassing."

She can hear him sitting upright in his chair and shifting. "Will do, Doctor. We'll be glad to, anything for the local celebrity."

And this is the reason why she hates men. "Thank you, Vergne." she manages to stay polite but hangs up before he can reply. If it's not one thing that irritates her its another.

*****

The news about Mrs. Grimes unfortunate demise takes front page two days later, fortunately dropping Emily from that position for at least a little while. Vergne and the other law enforcement officials are terming it a suicide. Emily knows better. Unfortunately, the local death is quickly overwhelmed with the next phone call she receives. As she hangs up the phone, the world begins to crumble at her feet.

*****

Emily didn't know what had happened overnight, but was soon brought aware of it. She is sitting in the living room, her body and mind numb. The grief is overwhelming. She hears the doorbell ring again and again, she sits still, listening. Then a knock on the door, still she does not rise to answer it. She hears the glass break and she leaps to her feet. She sees a leather gloved hand dutifully undoing the deadbolt and snaking back through the broken glass. Anger flares in her, bringing her body to life. She snatches a leaded crystal vase and prepares to subdue her unwanted visitor. She is not in a mood to be trifled with. The door swings wide, and he steps in. She drops the vase, letting it shatter on the floor. She runs to him, ignoring the glass that cuts into her slippers. His eyes are dark and clouded, she can see the pain etched in his face. He deftly closes the door behind him, ignoring the pain that is in his hand. She reaches out to him, pale hand caressing his cheek. Feeling the tears that had dried stiff there. She buries her face against the cold of his coat, and he receives her. Together they stand, lost for time, in mourning of another's passing.

*****

The room is cold as Emily carefully tapes the heavy plastic in place of the window. The glass has been swept from the floor and disposed of, but she still trod gently. Her right foot is wrapped in medical tape, holding a gauze pad against the cut she received. Dropping the roll of electrical tape back in the toolcase, she carries it back to the kitchen. She is taking pains to be quiet, and she slips into the living room. The only sound is the crackling of the fire, and still its warmth does not touch her. Dr. Hannibal Lecter sits asleep, tucked into a corner of the couch. Emily removes a blanket from the chest under the window and brings it over to him. He does not stir as she nestles in beside him, draping the blanket over them and resting a hand against his chest. She wishes with all her heart that she could change what has happened but she cannot. Tears trickle from her eyes as she sits there, staring unseeing at the fire. 

*****

Late afternoon in West Virginia. The sky has cleared for this one afternoon, as if God had wanted to look down on the somber ritual. Emily is standing at the graveside, looking on with disbelief. What didn't seem real two days ago is now unbearably so. From the corner of her eye she catches movement. Ardelia Mapp has tilted her head back to the sky, as if trying to see her once more. Emily feels the tears that she had so carefully guarded begin to slip. The priest speaks the last word and it seems to echo in the cemetery. Ardelia is the first to step forward, at the priest beckoning, and lay her flower on Clarice Starling's coffin. A yellow rose, the symbol of friendship. Ardelia stares at the casket for a long moment before turning back into the arms of the man who accompanied her. Emily watches as other colleagues from the FBI file forward and do the same. All bear roses, of yellow or white, placed on the white casket. Emily steps forward last, a bright Stargazer lily clutched in her hand. She chose the flower remembering Clarice had told her how beautiful she thought they were. That had been less than a month ago. She laid the lily atop the roses and pressed a hand to the casket, feeling the cold through the leather gloves she wore. A breeze blew at that moment, like Clarice saying goodbye.

She returned to the cemetery that night, and slipped in under the cover of darkness. She had played in cemeteries as a child and they did not frighten her. Her right hand was resting on Dr. Lecter's elbow as she guided him through the rows of headstones. Finally they came to the freshly turned earth that marked Clarice's grave. Emily released his arm and stood back, silent and watchful as he knelt at the grave. A sliver of moon shed its silver light on them and with that and the stars, was the only light. She heard the quiet tears as he placed the single red rose on the grave. One red rose amongst the white and yellow, one chance for true love amongst the friends. She laid a hand on his shoulder, letting him know that she was still there. His left hand came up to grasp it and she lowered herself to kneel beside him. Once again a breeze lifted and caressed their tear streaked faces. Lecter stood, laying a hand against the headstone in final farewell, and offered his elbow to Emily. Together, they left the cemetery with an angel watching over them.

*****


	18. Dare To Trespass The Final Threshold

She closes the door on the outside world, and traces a finger down the window pane, since replaced. The house is warm with the smell of the fire and the enticing aroma overlaying from the kitchen. He has mourned and moved on, she has been the one standing watchful at the door. Not watchful enough, because they have found her. The wolves at the FBI. Calls on the cell phone from Ardelia, letting her know that she should leave. She glances in the direction of the kitchen, considering, weighing the fates. Could she possible turn her back and run, leaving him to the wolves? He comes through the front room and into the hallway, glass of wine extended in his hand. She receives the wine, but cannot look at him as he stands there. Could she allow herself to lose the one being that had truly come to understand her? A sip of the wine and the warmth of his hand on her shoulder makes the decision for her. She cannot.

*****

Emily hurtles down the basement steps, unheeding of the dangers that await below. She finds the light switch and throws it, illuminating the damp subterranean room. Quickly, where is it? Her father kept his knives and guns down here, locked away from her. Her aunt never bothered to get rid of them when she moved her brood into the house, and the boys never knew about them. If they had, the gun safe would have surely been pillaged and more deaths would have been felt in her aunt's family. Frantic, shoving the old boxes and chairs out of the way. Dust clogged her throat and she heard steps coming up behind her. She looks around, trying to remember the placement in the basement. Following her father down here when he was going to go hunt. There, in the far right corner, near the old clothes chest from great grandmother. She points, and Hannibal Lecter moves the chest out of the way. Standing tall is her father's gun safe, and she quickly turns the old combination lock on it. It creaks on old hinges as she pulls it open, looking past the ammunition on the top shelf she seizes what she needs and waves Lecter back upstairs. Pausing by the old wine rack, Emily chooses from her father's prized collection, knowing that he would approve of her selection. She ascends the stairs and closes the door behind her. Dr. Lecter is waiting in the dining room, standing at the far end of the table. Emily hands him the box she has taken from the gun safe and sits in a chair, trying to breathe again. The dust and mold has done no good for her allergies. 

"You're sure they are in here, Emily?" asks Lecter, prying the lid open.

"Yes. I put them in there the night mother killed him." she nods, rising to help with the lid. She remembers cutting her finger on one of them when she dropped them into the box. Daddy's knives had glittered in the beam of her flashlight. It hadn't kept Mommy from killing him though, but it might keep her and Dr. Lecter alive. The lid finally opens and Lecter lifts the neatly folded pillowcase away. Nested below are four knives. Emily couldn't resist the urge to reach in and touch them, once again slicing the right index finger. Like she had when she was six, she took the finger and stuck it in her mouth, sucking on the wound. Lecter had a tight little smile on his face.

"Well, at least they are still sharp." she remarks, looking at her finger. 

He lifts one of the knives out, looking at in the light. It is a Harpy, much like his own. A small trace of blood mars the blade where Emily just cut herself. He wipes it carefully and hands it to her. "Take this one, Emily. I needn't warn you that the blade is sharp."

She nods and feels the knife in her hand. It is cold and the years weigh heavily on it. She looks at Lecter, feeling a little odd. He sees the look in her face and gently takes the knife from her hand, laying it on the table. It glints against the toile tablecloth. He carefully takes hold of her shoulders and he looks into her eyes.

"You don't have to do this, Emily." he is only telling her what she already knows. She nods, listening. "You can run now, leave me here to face them on my own."

"You know I can't do that." she shakes her head, deep regret etched in her face. "I owe it to Clarice to get you out of here." more than that, she tells herself, I owe it to me, to him. But what does that make of me, to loose a monster on the world to roam free once again? The breath is stilled on her lips as she ponders this. He sees her pause, and allows her the reflection. For the first time she can see herself in herself. "Dammit, Doctor." she growls when she breathes again. He releases her shoulders and presses the Harpy back into her hands. 

"Go, Emily."

She looks into the maroon eyes before stepping away from him. Her footfalls echo down the hall and he hears the door open, then shut again. He wonders for a moment why she has listened to him. The knock comes sharply on the door and he hears it open again, accompanied by her voice. He listens, still and quiet in the dining room. She has not listened to him, and he is relieved. Carefully, he removes his shoes and moves towards the kitchen and the entrance from there into the front room. His own Harpy is in his hands as he moves behind the piano.

*****

"Dr. Christophersen, you're okay and all?" asks the overfed Sheriff. He has two deputies in tow, both looking about nervously as they stand on the porch.

"Yes. Thank you for coming Vergne. He's knocked out upstairs, I think I got him good with the vase." she is speaking to him as a friend, her voice shaky as if she were truly frightened. 

"Well, you did good by calling us. Just stay down here while we go and collect him, okay?" in his mind's eye Lecter can see Emily nodding acquiescence. "I don't want you to get hurt anymore than you already are." 

Hurt? Lecter's nostrils flare. What did Emily tell them on the phone? He moves closer to the hall entrance, careful to stay out of sight. Vergne is turning, weight heavy on the floorboards as he moves to the stairs.

"Come on boys." he calls to his deputies who are still on the porch. They step in nervously nodding at Emily. They aren't used to dealing with the capture of known serial killers. One of them catches movement out of the corner of his eye and stops, looking into the front room. A faint reflection in the black piano.

"Hey Vergne, there's someone else in here." he calls as he decides to move into the front room. The other deputy and Sheriff Vergne decide to follow, causing Vergne to come back down the stairs. The first deputy is just drawing his gun when Lecter's arm flashes out and slits his throat. The second is too surprised to do anything and is quickly taken down as Lecter comes into the hall. Vergne has hit the bottom of the stairs and he pushes Emily backwards as he draws his sidearm. He has a shot off as the second deputy falls to the ground. Dr. Lecter feels the bullet graze his shoulder and he drops slightly. Emily grips her Harpy and lunges forward as Vergne takes aim for a second shot. 

"Sorry, Vergne." she whispers as the knife comes across Vergne's throat. She releases him and drops clumsily to the floor, Vergne's weight falls atop her leg. She looks up as she pushes him off to see a feral smile on Lecter's face. A cut on her face is trickling blood down her cheek.

"That's my girl."

*****


	19. Epilogue

The sounds of the first Met opera broadcast of the season echo over the speakers in her small office. She sits in her chair, contemplating the music and the shaft of sunlight that lays across the mahogany desk. She watches dust sparkle in the sunlight, and wonders. Finally, she picks up the mail that is on the corner of her desk. Most of the envelopes get tossed into the wastebasket with the remaining few being stacked in her designated 'Bills' corner. The last envelope is a surprise. She carefully opens the envelope to find another inside, her name printed in fine copperplate script. Her breath catches as she opens it and slides the fine linen paper from the envelope. Slowly, she unfolds the letter and begins to read, head bowed in the shaft of sunlight.

__

Dear Emily,

Or should I address it to Dr. Amelia Christen now? I do approve of the name change, but to me you will always be Emily. Sweet, sweet Emily. It took some doing to find you, but I managed. Did Colorado's winters not suit you? Yes, I have been keeping track of you, not easily though. You learned how to hide rather well, something learned in your youth perhaps? No matter, I am only glad to see that you are well. A question for you, dear Emily Amelia, before I take my leave, and a simple request. Do you ever regret what you did? I would rather think not, seeing as you and I are just alike. You don't have to answer now, but someday I will ask you again. My request is simple, that if you ever wish to see me, place an ad in the agony column of the national edition of the Times_ and in the _International Herald-Tribune_ on the first of any month, addressed to A.A. Aaron, so that it will be at the top of the column. I will understand completely if you choose not to see me again. If that is the case, I will consider this our final correspondence and consider the matter closed. Although, I will never forget you Emily. Stay well._

Sincerely Yours,

Hannibal Lecter M.D.

Emily stared at the letter as if it contained him in it. Her mind was wandering through the past when the shrill cry from the baby monitor brought her to reality. The sun was no longer stretching through the window as she rose, leaving the letter on the desk blotter. She ascended the stairs and stepped into the cheerfully painted nursery.

"Shhh. Don't cry, Mommy's here." she told the little girl in the crib. As if in understanding the wil stopped and the baby considered her for a moment. Emily clicked on the light that sat on the dresser and looked at her daughter's eyes. She plucked her form the crib and stood by the window as the sun set over the Bay. No matter what light she looked at them in and no matter how hard she tried to deny it her daughter's eyes would always be maroon.

*****


End file.
